Evening on the Ground
by amorous-clamorous
Summary: A fierce and modern take on the character of Poison Ivy, woven into the storyline of the Dark Knight Rises.
1. Chapter 1

The café was dimly lit and awkwardly furnished, rounding off an equally graceless and anonymous city block but Susan was happy. No crowds. No one cared if they smoked. Yves, however, never bothered to ask permission anyway.

"Management here is excellent," she cooed, proudly exhaling an elegant stream of blue smoke. "No one to stare at us like we card carrying members of the Scum Club."

Susan's chuckle came out low and vaporous. "Don't let it go to your head, now."

They were quiet, smirking at one another. It wasn't like them to talk much, even if it had been some time since their last meeting. But Susan could read Yves characteristic and easy satisfaction and similarly Yves could sense no trouble beneath her own pale ease so they relaxed into a familiar and amiable silence and allowed their minds to wander.

Susan lit another cigarette and neglected her tea. She gazed out of the window beside their small table, enjoying the late afternoon palette; yellow air, a sickly haze hanging low across a smear of gray sky. _It will rain, _she observed with a small smile and thought of the box of gardenias nestled outside her windowsill. She was hopeful for one final bloom before the end of fall. The rain would help.

Gotham had had a dry autumn. She lamented the hell it had wrought on her sinuses but had nonetheless savored the crisp air and the slow beauty of the changing leaves. The bold and lustful red maple leaves were her favorite, as crimson as her hair. It was her mother who had first made the comparison when she was merely a child. A deep ache rolled through her then, at the thought of her mother.

She glanced at her watch. It was nearly five.

"What are you dong tonight?" Yves said suddenly, stubbing her cigarette and tossing her white blonde hair. "I think we ought to get very drunk. Smoke too much, philosophize, have us a gay old time."

Susan laughed, extinguishing her own cigarette. It had been perhaps too long since she and Yves had shared a bottle and a brave night. Truth be told, Susan was a woman of reasonable vice. She liked to drink and do a thorough job of it, especially with Yves who always had a story to tell or an ex-lover to call and heckle.

But not tonight.

"I can't," she said simply, "My mother is expecting me. She doesn't want to spend tonight alone."

The color rose in Yves pale face. "I understand, I suppose." Susan could sense her mild annoyance and knew how her friend hated ceremony and loathed glum tidings even more. "You don't know suppose all this…pretense simply makes things worse? It's been ten years, Susan – "

"There's no need to lecture me on my grief, Yves" Susan clipped, glancing sharply away from her friend and out into the street once more. She counted three passing cars before she spoke again, measuring her irritation. "_I_ am fine. My mother is not."

Yves was silent and lit another cigarette. She could not understand because she did not want to. It was just the same. Susan would not have welcomed sympathy from anyone, not even from her only close friend.

She stood, collecting her things and shoving the shriveled pack of remaining cigarettes into the pocket of her cardigan. "Perhaps next week." She left without ceremony, pausing only to kiss Yves lightly on the cheek.

Susan wasn't upset. The small and self-righteous irritation she'd felt at Yves impatience had been short-lived. The topic of her father's disappearance was simply not one she could discuss outside the company of her mother.

It was not exactly the anniversary of the day her father vanished she reasoned – the precise date or any of the specifics for that matter remained unknown. No, rather, it was on this day, ten years ago, that her mother had returned from work overseas without her father.

By now she'd reached the subway station and made her way down to the terminal, swiping her card and moving through the turnstiles. When her train arrived, she boarded and slid easily into an empty seat. The car was not busy despite the hour and Susan was thankful. She let her thoughts mingle, lulled by the familiar buzz and rattle of the ride.

_Ten years…_

It seemed altogether vast and minute, that little fact. So much had happened and yet, at the same time, so little. The years of course had left their mark upon Gotham city. For such a town, a decade was plenty of time to run itself into chaos and then, with much sanctimonious effort, dig itself out. Although she'd been born and attended school in Gotham, Susan hadn't known the city well as a child and adolescent; her parents work and subsequent wealth allowed them to travel often. When she'd returned to the city at fifteen, permanently, unbeknownst to her at the time, she'd had the chance to fully recognize its awful and mighty glory.

Gotham was hell for the righteous and a playground for the corrupt. For the impassive, like herself, it was merely food for thought.

But oh, as a teenager, impassioned and frustrated with her parents and the abrupt and inevitable change life had brought her, she'd hated the city. How could you present a place so steeped in decay and common crime to an angry child who'd found the world before she'd found herself?

Time had weaned her of her temper and the city had made her cold, stunted the growth of her passion, and denied her the wonder she so craved after a childhood of adventure and curiosity. But she adapted. It had been difficult of course. She often found herself incapable of dealing with her mother's wearisome paranoia, her fits of panic, the lost and harrowed look in her eyes that Susan had first seen in the days following her mother's return…

The first years were the hardest, yes. Her mother had never been an overly warm woman. In fact, despite her parent's intellectual achievements, they approached their role as parents with awkward affection and distant care – something Susan had never resented them for. But on her mother's return, she had seen something growing within her mother that hadn't been there before: fear.

It broke her heart.

The only explanation Susan could salvage was a distant memory, falling apart with age. When she tried to reach back into her mind, to search her own depths for some forgotten link to her father, some reason for her mother's fear, she could remember snow-capped mountains in a foreign land. Cold rooms in an unfamiliar vacation home, a knock at the door in the middle of the night, strangers, the smell of blood…and most clearly the voices of her parents discussing what would become of her.

Her eagerness to make sense of these memories never seemed to lose its luster, even as the years carried her farther away from her father; a distance her mother had maintained by refusing her questions and had begun the day she had decided neither her nor her daughter would take his name. So Susan, very suddenly, had been Isley now – instead of Pavel.

_Perhaps I'll try again tonight…for some answers…_

Susan was torn quite suddenly from her thoughts with the announcement of her approaching stop. The car had filled quite considerably and she was careful as she snaked her way to the doors. Staring at her ghostly reflection in the greasy glass of the subway door, she blinked the worry away from her eyes. She wanted to greet her mother with an easy smile.

"Have some more wine, mom."

Susan pushed the warm green bottle to her mother, careful not to nudge the half empty pint of ice cream between them and the glass picture frame of her father that had been ceremoniously propped in the middle of the table. She knew from the dust lining its delicate cut that her mother had retrieved its hiding place, a high shelf or a bureau drawer, just for her visit. She quenched the lump in her throat with a hard swallow of wine.

"I know what you're doing," her mother smiled at her, picking up the bottle and examining the rustic script of the label, "You're trying to butter me up for something…"

Susan couldn't stop her own grin. "Another glass of wine wouldn't hurt your nerves. I know for a fact it does nothing but soothe mine." She downed the rest of her glass with some bravado just to prove her point. It had the desired effect: her mother laughed. Susan joined in despite the familiar burn in her belly, happy for this moment of relief from such a somber occasion, happy for the sound of her mother's laughter.

Dinner, she would admit, had been uncomfortable. Conversation was just as slow and sullen as Susan remembered. She had stared down into the worn grain of the wooden dining table, picking at its pock marks when her efforts to muster lively conversation flagged and faltered; she couldn't recall how many times she'd felt the same unease as a teenager, trying so hard to charm her mother into a smile, into some semblance of normalcy, of content.

But, now, her nerves were settling in her stomach along with a glass of wine and she was glad to see her mother smiling – even if it had taken some liquid courage to help her there. Susan had deftly turned the topic away from the occasion and toward her mother's private pleasure and sole hobby – her garden. It brought her joy and filled her face with a light and an interest that her daughter had so dearly missed.

Maude Isley had at one time been beautiful. Worry had wrinkled the fine ivory canvas of her skin and had stained it gray with ill-resolve. There was white creeping at her hairline, contrasting sharply with her faded scarlet hair. Her splendor, however, had survived in her daughter. Susan had grown straight and slender, pale as aspen, with the cold blue eyes and sanguine hair that held her mother's ancient heritage. They shared a sharp and intelligent beauty, keen and strong in its elegance. No trace of her father, Leonid Pavel, of his dark and brooding brow, his stout Russian nose, his warm eyes could be found in her face. She knew her mother found some weak solace in this small genetic miracle now more than ever.

Even for the turning tide of conversation, Susan could not shake her father from her mind. Her questions rolled heavily in the pit of her stomach like lost coins. She watched her mother's thin lips move around words she could not hear. And then when the talk dwindled and her mother grew quiet with a fulfilled silence, she jumped.

"Mom," she began unsteadily, tucking her legs beneath her and straightening, "I _was_ wondering if perhaps – it being so long now, with so much time passed…if maybe…"

Recognition rolled over her mother's face before Susan could sound her request. Her eyes glanced briefly at Susan then flickered down to the bottle of wine, the sweating carton of ice cream as though she had suddenly become aware of their dark ulterior motives. The light had left her face; Susan's heart sank.

"Suze, you know what that sort of talk does to my nerves."

Something in Susan pressed forward and she brushed off the affectionate nickname with mild annoyance. "But it's been ten years. Don't deny me my questions any longer. Please –" her voice broke with exasperation and she leaned forward across the table, "You know how I hate not knowing, how I've hated it all these years."

"Some other time," her mother's eyes flitted about, fighting the intensity in Susan's stare, "Please, not tonight. Not tonight of all nights –"

Again, she insisted. "I am losing him, mother. The more you keep him from me, the less of him I have to hold."

"He's already lost, Susan!"

"What _are_ you so afraid of?"

The question had burst forth, unrestrained. Any other time, Susan might have been ashamed for such a coarse comment; she was usually more sensitive to her mother's panicky temperament. But as she held her gaze, as she watched some foreign feeling unfold in her mother's eyes, she felt her resistance weaken; as if the question still ringing in the air had knocked loose one hopeful stone from the wall her mother had spent years laboring to build between Susan and an aching memory.

There was a long pause, a pocket of swelling air, building. The two women stared at one another. And then finally – a slow and submissive nod. Susan's mind blanked with disbelief, if for only a moment, but then her questions swarmed to the front of her mind dizzying her with their multitude. She inhaled shakily and began.

"What was it that kept you and dad away from me? During those three years?"

Her mother shook her head, glancing away from her daughter to fill her wine glass with a liberal slosh. "No, Susan. Start with what you know."

_But I don't know anything, _she fumed silently, but she breathed, closing her eyes, focusing her mind, forcing herself to think as her mother instructed. Susan was soon lost to the hum of her churning mind and when she spoke again, she let the memories and her scattered, shallow recollections simply roll off her tongue.

"We were on vacation. Overseas, in a new home, tucked someplace cold. Someplace with mountains…and snow. I was fifteen," she went on calmly, "I can remember the cold – and the quiet – because there had been a knock at the door. Visitors, strangers. It woke me up it was so loud…Dad answered the door. He stood so long in the doorway talking with whoever it was. I remember because I was upset he was letting the cold in." Susan laughed dryly, "And then you were up too and the light was on the kitchen and there were low voices, foreign voices…"

She trailed off for a moment, hesitant to continue; for the parcel of memory she had yet to unload from her mind was a difficult one. She had often wondered to herself, quite seriously, whether or not it had really happened. Or if it had been a construction of her imagination, the fever dream of a confused child reeling from loss.

"The strangers stayed. And more of them came," Susan continued, opening her eyes to look at her mother for some assurance. There was none. "They filled the house. They smelt like snow and smoke and iron and I could never understand what they were saying." She forced herself to stop. A look of feigned ignorance crept into her eyes and she blinked stupidly at her mother.

She would continue with this part of the memory in particular maybe when her mother's own account could reassure her further of its reality.

It took her mother a moment to begin but when she did her voice was measured and slow as if she'd rehearsed these lines, gone over them again and again to get the details right, to keep them fresh in her mind, in case she'd missed something.

"Yes, they were strangers," she confirmed, "They found us. They had gathered our names somehow, from a colleague of ours maybe. But that didn't matter. They knew who we were and what we had to offer. They knew we could complete the task they had presented us with and do so with skill and discretion."

Susan nodded slowly. Her parents were brilliant scholars, brilliant scientists, brilliant chemists. Her father excelled in his field – nuclear physics, chemical engineering – and she could remember, just before their final time together, he'd been on the verge of some new design, a certain reactor design the details of which had been lost to her mind. Her mother, fervent in her appreciation for nature, had committed her life to the study of plants and their endless uses – especially in medicine. Their knowledge and experience made them both invaluable and very wealthy.

The older woman knew her daughter's question before it reached her lips.

"They wanted us to construct a mechanism, a sort of respiratory apparatus if you will, that was convenient and sustainable, that would maintain stability and function well with the mechanics of a person under extraordinary circumstances –"

"A mask?" Susan quirked her brow and her mother merely nodded. "What for?"

She was slow to respond and for a moment, Susan was worried her mother's willingness had run its course. But she went on.

"The strangers, our visitors, had only brought your father and me a proposal. After much discussion and after we had given our assent, they left only to return with something more: a man, a patient…" Susan felt her pace quicken and had to all but sit on her hands to keep still for the anticipation. Her mother's voice was deliberate. "This man was one of their own and he'd been seriously injured. No, that's putting it lightly – they brought him to us a mangled and bloody mess. But his face…his face had been much worse…"

Susan could be sure now of her memory. There _had _been a man and the blood in her memory had belonged to him. This confirmation shook something loose in the dark of her mind. Something she'd forgotten: gray eyes. _Ancient_ gray eyes, white gauze, the smell of iron, and the unmistakable confusion and shame of stumbling upon something – someone – she was not supposed to see…

But the memory spirited away from her, spinning out of her grasp like blue smoke. Her brow furrowed with frustration but she pressed on, concentrating solely on what she _knew._ She would dismiss the details for the sake of the larger picture.

"So the man was your patient," she stated firmly, "And the mask?"

"Was for him," her mother continued after a tight swallow of wine, "Your father and I did the best we could to help him. To realign his spinal column, to treat the fractures and the breaks, to reconstruct his face – he would live, yes, but in constant agony. You see, we had been mistaken. The mask was not simply meant to help him breathe, but to help him _survive_."

Susan found herself where she had started. "That was why you sent me away. Why the both of you were gone for all that time."

Her mother nodded, her blue eyes heavy and swimming with fog. "We realized our task, our work on the patient and on the mask itself, would be a lengthy process. We couldn't keep you away from school. It was a mutual decision. And – for what it's worth – your father didn't like the thought of you in that house full of strangers. Truth be told they scared him…"

Susan stared down absently into crystal belly of her empty wine glass, her mind tripping over itself to form some comprehensive notion of the memories her mother had just relayed. The new energy excited her and she felt on the verge of some great and miraculous discovery: the key to her satisfaction after all these years…

"Who were these people, mom?" she asked, after a short pause, locking eyes with her mother once more.

Her mother drew a long breath and had only just summoned the words to her tongue when there came a low knock on the door. The pair exchanged a look of confusion. Susan checked her watch: it was nearly eleven.

"I'll get it," she murmured and rose from her seat on the floor, frowning at the interruption. She made her way down the hall, her footfalls muted by the carpet. The door to her mother's lush apartment was fixed with a peephole and when Susan set her eye to the glass she was met with a baffling sight. Her sudden guests were not baffling enough, however, to be ignored and Susan opened the door.

The two men were well-dressed but plain. Nameless, shapeless in standard black suits. Bureaucrats.

The first of them began. "Maude Isley?"

"No, I'm Susan Isley," I stated mechanically, "I'm her daughter."

"Very well," the other of them continued, "My name is Agent Huff and this is Agent Morrissey. We work for the Central Intelligence wing of the Federal government." They casually flashed their gold plated badges. "We received notice of your whereabouts from the Gotham City directory office earlier this morning."

_And you couldn't have come at a more decent hour_ Susan thought sourly and glanced over her shoulder at the sound of her mother in the foray. "What's going on?" she asked and Susan stepped aside to let her mother stand at the doorway. "What could the government want with us?"

The men glanced at one another and Morrissey spoke. "Ma'am, it is our understanding that your husband, whose name you no longer take, Leonid Pavel, has been listed in our missing person records from some time now."

"Ten years," Susan breathed, her heart beating wildly in her chest. She felt her mother's hand reach for hers and squeeze it tightly.

"Two days ago, we were informed that a small government owned American airplane crashed in a remote area of Africa," Huff continued, "Leonid Pavel was one of the passengers. The plane crashed with no survivors."

The shock was cold, crashing into Susan with such sudden and unbelievable force. She did not feel her mother's hand slip from hers, did not hear her wretched gasp nor the anonymous voice offering its customary condolences as the men took their leave. The official document of report that they had slid into her hands had found itself at her feet and then she found herself in the hallway, holding her mother, feeling her fear, her pain, echoing in her own hollow and deadened nerves.

It began to rain.


	2. Chapter 2

Susan had not always been so level. As a child she had embodied all the fire of her hair. She'd been prone to fits of rage that left her face ruddy and sticky with hot tears and the brightly polished hallways of her sumptuous childhood home echoing with her strident screams. Anything could and would set her off – but mostly it was her parents. She would spend entire afternoons searching for them, peering into every beautiful empty room, hungry for attention. When at last she found them, locked away in their offices and their laboratories, their backs bent and their faces creased with focus, her eyes would well up with the sheer relief of finding them. Her curiosity was appreciated but swiftly dismissed and she was sent on her way.

When she grew older, this solitude became her companion. In quiet moments, which were many, she reasoned she had simply outgrown her excitement. Or merely repressed it in order to adapt to the cold and clinical world of the "grown ups". It didn't matter. She was better now. She had fixed herself.

But in the weeks following the knowledge of her father's death, she could feel it creeping up on her like a sick red haze and collecting in the back of her throat. Her anger was not entirely unfounded. Susan felt cheated. She had held the truth in her hands! Felt the first satisfying turn of the cogs in her mind and could see the pieces of her scattered memory begin to coalesce. And then – an overwhelming anticlimax and worst of all, an unruly petulance that she wielded without discrimination on anyone who was unfortunate enough to encounter her.

She had arranged a small and exceptionally private service in respect for her father and had seen that her mother receive the full of what was owed her by the insurance companies and Social Security (Susan was glad to expend most of her frustration in a near-anonymous manner through the wire). Unlike Susan, who had been struggling to manage the anger she had hoped would remained dormant after all these years, Maude Isley had turned to stone. She talked little, ate even less, and her face retained a slack expression of shock and confusion. She moved from room to room in her apartment, casing the room with her ghostly stare and drifting on in disappointment, behavior that reminded Susan eerily of herself as a desperate and lonely child.

Concerned, she had stayed with her mother for a few days occupying the guest bedroom and taking a short leave of absence from work to settle her affairs. Truth be told, she hated it. She missed her work, her research, her own apartment, her house plants…and her mother's company was unnerving. The fear, the dark panic that before had merely crossed her face in shadow, had swallowed her completely.

When the time came for her to leave – that is when Susan determined that her mother could function without the safeguard of her supervision – she was thankful, shamefully so. It was strange. She did not realize how much she had come to crave the very solitude that used to torment her until she was forced to keep company. She didn't dwell on it.

And how could she? She reasoned, starting down the steps of her quaint red-brick apartment. The morning was crisp and sweet like a new apple and she delighted in the brilliant swatches of cheerful yellow sunlight that streaked the sidewalk lining her block as she made her way to the entrance of her terminal. She was happy to be going back to work, happy to be rid of her boredom and her worry; she could feel herself going through the familiar motions, suppressing her strife, imagining her feelings collapsing themselves, folding, folding, growing smaller with each fold, slowly disappearing into nothing until she was once more comfortably numb.

After a quick and relatively painless transit, she reemerged on the other side of the city. The streets were crowded and Susan navigated the concrete with easy grace, her long legs carrying her the four busy blocks to her destination: a tall and luxuriously modern edifice of blue and silver glass. Daggett Industries.

She had always been proud of her employer. While in graduate school, working toward a double major of pharmacology _and_ toxicology, she'd been recommended by her professor to the newly developed pharmaceutical division of the company which was looking for bright young minds to assign to their research facility. Susan had been one of the brightest. She'd earned her spot, she observed with some conceit, and so as she sailed across the high gloss floor of the first-floor lobby and into the elevator bound for her floor, she felt the thrill of a new day to stretch her mind.

The Biotech Division of Pharmaceutical Research, dedicated to the entire twenty-ninth floor and constructed entirely of classically off-white walls and impeccable glass, was a new sector, teeming with interns and young professionals just as eager to prove themselves as she was. The hallways were swarmed and alive with the sound of voices, the swish of lab coats, and the scuffle of hurried steps on tile. The office and lab space she shared with her colleague Jason Woodrue was cluttered and personal and Susan paused in the doorway to inhale its familiar scent and appreciate the busy atmosphere she had missed so dearly.

Jason was absent from his unkempt desk but his goofy coffee mug was not which meant he was not far off and wouldn't be gone long. And sure enough, shortly after she had settled into her desk, midway through her computer's start sequence, he appeared in the doorway several files tucked under his arm and his hair already boyishly disheveled. At the sight of Susan, a slow grin started across his face.

"Well look who it is!" he exclaimed, moving into the room and striding over to stand behind her chair. He took her by the shoulders and gave them a small squeeze of welcome. "You know, I was on the verge of filing a report with missing persons. Imagine how quaint – your face on the side of a milk carton."

His tease reminded Susan briefly of her father but she warded off the thought with a quick return. "Oh they'd never get my nose right, but I appreciate the thought, Jason."

"Of course," he sighed, ambling away and plunking down at his own desk, "What's kept you away, may I ask?"

"A bad perm," she bluffed with frivolous ease, turning back to her computer, "I simply had to wait it out."

He snorted and reached for his cup of coffee. "I was sure you had eloped with some boyfriend I don't know about". Susan could feel his eyes watching her suspiciously over the rim of his mug and she smiled coolly.

"I assure you that was not the case – you're the only one for me, Jason."

He chuckled, shaking his head as he flipped open one of the files that had arrived with him.

Susan had worked with Jason for some time now. She had first been assigned to him as an intern but, due in no small part to her impressive work ethic, had ascended swiftly to a paid position working _with _rather than under his instruction. She simply hadn't needed too much of it – and Jason had been impressed if not mildly envious. They worked well together and got along well enough although Susan was sure he was still sore about a few complications in their professional relationship.

Susan would not readily deny that they had slept together on occasion, nor would she refuse his suggestions should she feel so inclined, but she had been quick to refuse him the hope of a steady relationship. Sex and romance were near insignificant elements in her life; it pleased her to keep it that way.

The day proceeded as usual, to Susan's delight, and she fell comfortably back into routine: clearing her desk of the work that had been waiting since her absence, moving to and from the lab space, making her rounds to the other offices to receive and deposit manila folders thick with data entries and test results. She was steadily working into mid-morning when she decided to stretch her legs. After offering to fetch her colleague another mug of coffee, an offer he politely refused, Susan made her way to the stylishly modern break room.

There were a few people scattered amongst the simple oval lunch tables chatting idly and a couple of the faces she knew smiled at her and offered her a welcome back. The line at the coffee maker was long but she sailed past them, smugly, opting for her usual cup of tea instead. She was just adjusting the temperature on the electric kettle when someone glided up beside her.

"I'd tie that hair up if I were you."

Susan looked up into the dark, stern face of another of her colleagues, Maya. The woman's rich lips were turned up in a smirk as she reached the cream and sugar for her coffee.

"Did I not get the memo?" Susan replied, glancing around. She noticed then the uncharacteristic order of the break room and the almost formal dress of everyone present. Maya herself was in heels. She _had _missed the memo.

"The boss is coming in today," Maya replied simply, "The big cheese."

_John Daggett himself, _Susan thought smirking broadly. "Then maybe I really ought to keep my hair down." It was the common and unspoken knowledge of all his employees that the president of the company had a particular penchant for beautiful women.

Maya rolled her eyes but couldn't help but smile, walking away from the countertop and stirring her coffee as she went. When the water was ready, Susan poured a generous amount in her mug, set a bag of green tea in to steep, and did the same, wondering why on earth Daggett would be gracing the office with his presence this morning.

She speculated that his visit could mean another company expansion or hopefully another research grant. Daggett spent all his money on three things: himself, women, and his company. It was also common knowledge that the president absolutely loathed his one and only competitor – Wayne Enterprises – and would spend the necessary money and manpower to surpass them. Mention of that fact was especially forbidden.

Susan didn't dwell long on the occasion of Daggett's visit and settled back at her desk, bemused slightly at all the fuss. However, she had not been settled long before she learned the real reason.

The phone rang.

"Susan Isley?" The voice on the other end of the line she recognized as the smooth, cool voice of the receptionist at the front desk.

"Yes?" she responded, automatically straightening in her seat.

"Your presence is requested in the conference room A at a quarter to twelve."

She felt a nervous, tightening sensation in her gut. "May I ask what for?"

"Your supervisors would like to discuss a matter of importance with you." The receptionist's voice remained unaffected and when the call ended with a mechanical click, Susan put the receiver down knowing little to nothing even despite her question. Her eyes flickered up to the clock on the wall. She had fifteen minutes.

"Somebody's in trouble," Jason crooned, not looking up from his microscope at the lab table.

Susan only ignored his childish comment but couldn't help the anxious feeling growing in her chest. Could this be about her absences from work? She had called in as necessary, worked from home as best she could...Her mind drew a blank. She returned to her computer, finishing off a lengthy data report and sipping her tea mechanically. When the black minute hand had crept up to hover around the eight, she closed her computer and after briefly checking her face in the compact mirror she retrieved from her purse, she got up to leave.

"Nice knowing you, kid" Jason called and she caught only a glance of his devilish grin as she strode out of the room and into the hallway. She reached the conference room with a couple minutes to spare and she was glad for them. Her stomach had flipped when she saw the white blinds had been closed, concealing the room and its occupants from view. She used the time she had to calm herself.

Susan knocked twice and was given permission to enter by a calm voice on the other side of the door. She entered and closed it quietly behind her before turning to face the room. She had expected to find her supervisors, the three men and one woman who had hired her, promoted her, and overseen her progress. Instead she found herself in the company of two strangers: a well dressed man, who would've been handsome if not for the cruel blackness of his eyes and the grease in his hair, and then, at the very head of the table, John Daggett himself.

"Please have a seat, Ms. Isley," he indicated a seat with a small wave of his hand. She did as she was told, nodding her hellos. Although the other man, who she could guess was his lackey, regarded her with an unaffected stare, she noticed the complacency in Daggett's expression and felt her shoulder's tense.

This was the first time she had seen him outside of the occasional company Christmas gala or benefit, where she had only seen him from afar. He was physically unimpressive, sporting a prep-school haircut and an ostentatious Armani suit. Susan was not, however, unaware of the power he possessed and fixed her face to hide the low opinion she had formed of him.

"As a woman with such a profound record of high performance, I'm sure you're wondering why you're here." Daggett's voice was as smug as his face.

"You flatter me, sir" she replied coolly and eyed the thin folder that lay open in front of him.

"Your file doesn't lie," he said, reclining in his leather chair. He eyed Susan down the length of his nose with a somewhat sordid gaze and she regarded him with some unease. She almost wished she'd taken Maya's advice and done something with her hair. It always drew unwanted attention.

"If you will, sir," she began, placing her hands firmly upon the table, "There are plenty of hardworking, intelligent people at this company. What brought you're attention to _me_?"

There was a beat. Then, Daggett licked his lips and began. "As president of the corporation, I'm sure you understand that my priority lies in seeking out investments that will benefit the company and its assets. I have, recently, made such an investment. However, in the interest of that investment, I feel the need to…employ the suitable resources. In this division specifically." Susan frowned. She didn't especially like being referred to as a _resource_. "I went to consult the executives and your name came up. After reviewing your file," he tapped the papers lightly, "I found that with your credentials you were best suited for the job."

"You're being awfully vague, Mr. Daggett."

He quirked a brow at the edge in her voice, half impressed, half affronted. Susan saw his look of satisfaction falter for a moment and she wondered if she had spoken too freely. The gleam in his eye returned however and he continued.

"Due to the critical nature of this investment, the details must remain undisclosed," he leaned forward, folding his hands on the table, "That is unless you accept my offer."

Susan raised an eyebrow. "Are we discussing a promotion?"

He smiled. "You could say that."

She took pause, weighing his words. Never in her life had she had a conversation so reticent. It made her nervous. Narrowing her gaze, she glanced from Daggett to his stolid friend, whose silence she found unsettling. But she could deduce nothing from the man's vacant face or Daggett's obnoxious simper

"What are you offering me?"

"I'm prepared to offer you what I believe you'll find a sufficient fund –"

"I don't want your money," she stated blankly.

Daggett shifted uncomfortably in his seat, visibly taken aback by her answer. "Well, what _do_ you want?" he snapped, his veneer of confidence breaking once more.

She smiled, relishing in the fact that she had now gained the upper-hand. "Equipment." He frowned and she took the silence to explain herself. "I don't want your money, Mr. Daggett, because I already have plenty. But I need equipment – scientific equipment – for my own personal enterprises; for my research."

"What sort of research, Ms. Isley?"

Susan smirked. "The details must remain undisclosed."

Daggett's face broke with an appreciate grin that she did not expect as a reaction to her blatant cheek. He seemed impressed. "I'll get you your equipment, Ms. Isley. That is if we have a deal?"

Susan hesitated for only a moment and her mind suddenly blanked as it did on the verge of every great decision. A moment of freefall. And then, almost unconsciously, she left her chair and moved across the room. She extended her right hand.

"Deal."

Her apartment was quiet save for the low mechanical hum of the heater and the soft sighs of the floorboards as the flat settled. Gotham's winter was fast approaching and Susan pulled the blankets tight around her form, turning away from the window and the lights of the city still blazing beyond.

Staring blankly at the wall, she let her mind unwind.

Following her unexpected meeting, the day had been a blur. Once they had sealed the deal, Daggett advised her to take the rest of the day. Her supervisors had already been informed of their arrangement, he had explained; who was she to refuse his request? When she asked what was to be done about her current unfinished projects, many of which were waiting to be attended to on her desk, Daggett replied that he work would simply be given to her colleague for him to handle accordingly.

_Jason_. Susan's thoughts lingered on him only for a moment. He would be angry, yes. Jealous that someone fours years his junior, a _woman_, had been selected over him by Daggett himself. However, she couldn't help smiling into her pillow.

She had returned home for the day as Daggett directed, happy to take advantage of the free time that was such an anomaly. She had fixed herself some lunch, tended to her plants with attention, and then proceeded to her lab eager to make up for lost time. Susan was sorry to admit she had neglected her personal work. But perhaps with Daggett's material assistance, she had reasoned, there would be less carelessness on her part.

Some people took up knitting as a hobby; others took up hard drugs. Susan figured she fell somewhere in the middle of the spectrum with botany. She had taken up the science shortly after sophomore year at university, inspired by her mother's long time love for the subject. She had loved it immediately and couldn't help but be moved by the beauty of her discipline: the awe-inspiring patterns of the cells beneath her lens, the lush green of a healthy vine, the cyclical life of a flower…It gave her perspective. It gave her patience. She found joy in her work in a city where everything else, every_one _else was lackluster and unsatisfactory and in many ways she likened herself to the subjects of her study, although she would never admit it openly. Beautiful, sovereign, indifferent, keen on survival…

However, much to Susan's chagrin, she could not focus her mind on metabolic flux analysis, her most recent undertaking; it had been much too preoccupied, attempting to imagine just what sort of "investment" Daggett had been talking about. It had crossed her mind only once that she may have unwittingly agreed to something criminal. You could never be too sure with the rich men in this city. For all she knew the mob could be coming out of retirement, what with the notorious Batman currently missing in action.

But Susan was decidedly neutral. Clinical. Adaptable.

Propping herself up on one arm, she leaned over the side of the bed and reached for her purse. She rummaged blindly for a few minutes before she found what she was looking for: Daggett's business card. He had slipped it to her on his way out of the conference room. On the face of the card there was his name, the name of the company, a phone number, a fax number all printed in creamy black ink. Holding it up to the faint light streaming in from the window, she turned the card over in her long pale fingers. On the other side, scribbled in a hurried yet clear hand, was an address.

"_8:00 sharp, Ms. Isley." _

Susan stared at the card for a few moments, gnawing at her bottom lip. She could feel her mind begin to churn once more, resuming its earlier speculations, but she shook her head opting for sleep instead. She rolled over once more and slid the card back into her purse.

She would know tomorrow, she reckoned shutting her eyes and nestling her head into the comfort of her pillow. Whatever Daggett had planned for her, whatever waited for her, she would know tomorrow. Her reasoning had little to offer her in the way of assurance but it did at least calm her busy mind enough for her to fall into a quick and dreamless sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

The cigarette hung limply in her mouth as Susan slung her purse down into the crook of her arm and rummaged briskly through its contents. When she found the slim white business card, she looked fixedly at the address. Then stepping back, she peered up and along the length of the building before her, squinting at the glare of the honey-gold window panes.

An apartment building. There was no mistaking the smiling, white-gloved doorman or the stream of stylish residents that trickled out through the set of gilded double-doors onto the well swept sidewalk. For a moment, she thought perhaps she had made a gaffe. But no; there, in brilliant gold lettering, fixed to the smooth marble of the building, was the address as it was written on the card.

_Why would Daggett send me here? _She puffed nervously on her cigarette, throwing side-long glances at a few people who had just emerged from the complex. She detected the unmistakable musky scent of a real fur and the luxurious aroma of rich cologne. She felt, for a brief moment, almost intimidated in her simple green dress.

She took one final, long satisfying drag from her cigarette and quickly stubbed it. Adjusting the strap of her purse and straightening up smartly, she moved with confident strides toward the door. The doorman was ready for her and as the door swung wide before her, Susan was hit full in the face with a blast of warm air that smelt faintly of cinnamon.

_Even the air smells rich_, she mused, smirking inwardly. She glanced around the lobby with mild interest, allowing herself a few moments to admire the unnecessary decadence. Everything was gold cherubs and midnight blue upholstery. The shining faces of the steel elevator doors beckoned her toward the end of the foyer and as they slid open, Susan was only half surprised to find an another equally cheerful employee waiting just inside the doors.

The wealthy. Too inept to even press a few buttons. Susan shook her head but forced a small grin of her own as she stepped into the lift.

"What floor, ma'am?" the man asked brightly, pointing a white gloved finger at the control board.

"Uh…" she hesitated, turning the card over in her hand. "Thirty-nine." Something crossed his face suddenly. Susan thought it looked like recognition. He nodded slowly.

"Of course, ma'am."

The car began its smooth ascension, each floor they passed registering with a low and melodious ping. She could feel the bellhop staring at her, his eyes traveling up and down her slender form. Not with any sexual interest, she noted – just curiosity. Nonetheless she challenged him with a hard scowl. He remembered himself and looked away and after a few more moments of heavy silence, the elevator slowed to a stop.

"Here you are, ma'am," he murmured.

She did not respond and neither did look back as the doors slid open noiselessly and she stepped onto the thirty-ninth floor. In fact, his words did not even register. Susan was dumbstruck.

A penthouse. Daggett had summoned her to his penthouse.

Her hands, hanging limply by her sides, formed two pale and shaking fists. She felt a sharp sting as his business card was reduced to a crumpled scrap in the palm of her hand. She could sense an old familiar rage building within her which she struggled to stifle and had half a mind to simply turn on her heel and leave before he could make her look like a fool. But something stronger in her told her to stay – told her to stay and slap the cocky bastard in his smug little face.

How dare he…calling her here like some _escort_.

"Hello?" she called sharply, her voice echoing off the smooth granite of the walls whose vanilla color complimented the buttery palette of the entire room; the white leather couch, the downy carpet, the dewy light of the subtly art deco floor lamps. Susan thought she might vomit.

"Ah, Ms. Isley!" She heard him before she saw him, his exclamation ringing around her. He entered from some unseen hallway and fixed her with a satisfied grin. "Welcome." She only glared at him, feeling her lip curl slightly in disgust. He frowned at her silence. "Why the long face, Susan – I can call you Susan, can't I?"

"I am not amused, sir" she replied through gritted teeth, her eyes narrowing in irritation, "And Ms. Isley is just fine."

He raised an eyebrow but his simper returned. "Come now, Ms. Isley, there's no need for such resentment. I know my humble abode," he made a wide gesture with his arm and Susan rolled her eyes, "may not be the first-rate facility you're used to. But I'm sure you'll find my accommodations more than suitable."

She stared at him and then spoke slowly, her breathing low and steady, her fury just roiling below the surface. "Why am I here, Mr. Daggett?"

"To work, of course," he drawled, idly picking a bit of lint from his suit jacket.

"I assure you, sir," she growled, "That if your intentions for hiring me, for inviting me here are anything other than professional I'll -"

"You ought to be careful with this one, Daggett. She's too quick for you."

The voice caught her off guard. It was so strange, so elegant. She whirled around to face their visitor and for the second time that morning found herself completely speechless.

He was inhuman. That was her first thought. Unreasonable but not impossible. Susan could not decide where first to look. The challenge declared simply in his posture. The imposing shadow of his physique. The sinister and steel plated alien mechanism that encircled his entire head like some horrible muzzle, hissing lightly with the rhythm of his measured breaths. It was the eyes she finally settled on. Gray and empty, save for a bit of curious and undetectable light.

"It smells like cigarettes," he observed calmly and Susan fought the color rising in her face, feeling suddenly self-conscious. She swallowed stiffly, holding his gaze although he bested her by a solid six inches. Her lips parted slightly and she exhaled sharply; she hadn't realized she'd been holding her breath.

"_This _is why you're here, my dear."

Daggett's voice only barely reached her though he had crept up closer to her. She had forgotten he was there. She was almost too stupefied to frown as his glib pet-name. Or the hand she felt at the small of her back.

"I'm not sure I follow," she said, the edge still evident in her voice as she took a few steps away from him. She tore her eyes from the _colossus_, if only for a moment, to fix a suspicious eye on Daggett as he ambled around her to stand next to their guest.

"_This _is Bane," he replied simply, reaching up to place a hand on the man's shoulder. "My new investment, you could say."

The picture before her was so absurd: the jaunty angle of Daggett's raised arm, his smug face, the mere difference in size between him and the man on whom he had just placed his possessive little hand. She could not contain herself. A loud and unexpected laugh tumbled from her lips.

Both Daggett and Bane, as his patron had introduced him, were taken aback. But although the former looked only mildly annoyed, Susan thought she spied some spark amusement in the half-concealed countenance of the other man. She couldn't be sure. It unnerved her that she couldn't see his mouth...

Susan was still smiling as she turned away from both of them, sauntering farther into the room. Her moment of humor had suddenly made her brazen. "I'd like those undisclosed details now, Mr. Daggett," she drawled throwing her purse carelessly onto the seat of a nearby couch.

Daggett moved to join her, looking confident that she had not run screaming from the apartment. _Bane_, on the other hand, remained where he was, watching the scene calmly. He openly stared at her and she returned his gaze with the same honest interest, allowing Daggett only half of her attention.

"I'm sure by now, Ms. Isley, you've noticed my friend's special mask."

She yielded to the insolent expression creeping across her face. "I have." Her eyes wandered back to Bane and she narrowed her eyes to scrutinize the intricate machinery. She wished absently that he'd come closer and as if on her command, he began towards them, stopping a few yards away to maintain his distance. His gait was confident and surprisingly graceful for a man of his stature. Not once did his eyes wander from Susan's face.

"And as I've expressed to you before," Daggett continued, "It is in my best interest to keep the best interests of my investments at heart –"

"Cut to the chase." She was sick of his smooth talking. "Please," she added with a saccharin smile sensing the irritation in his manner.

Nevertheless, he surrendered. "Ms. Isley, you were hired first and foremost for your expertise in pharmaceuticals."

She blinked, knowing instantly what he meant. "You want me to make drugs".

"Bingo," Daggett replied, settling into a stately white-leather armchair and cocking his head to look up at her as she remained standing. "See, my friend's charming mask is not merely accessory. It was designed to supply his system with a special analgesic drug twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, three hundred and sixty-five days a year. The specifics are of little consequence…but let's just say that he can't afford to run out of the good stuff." He smiled darkly and the pleasant light in Susan's face fell away.

_- the mask was meant…to help him _survive_. _

Feeling her body stiffen, her eyes flickered back to Daggett's "friend". He had his hands stuffed in the pockets of his simple leather jacket and his head tilted ever so slightly to the left. The room was silent save for the low, mechanical hiss emanating from his mouthpiece, a sound Susan found oddly soothing.

She looked down at her hands, glancing away from both of them. Uncurling her fists, she remembered the card she had wrinkled so furiously. One of the edges had cut her palm and her blood had ruined the otherwise flawless off-white coloring. She carelessly flicked the wad onto the impossibly spotless coffee table and returned to Daggett.

"All the necessary resources will be supplied?" she asked briskly before he could object to her litter.

"Yes."

"And my payments delivered in the method we discussed?"

"Yes."

"And am I to receive full anonymity?"

"Without question."

There was a beat. "It's settled then," she stated simply, shrugging out of her coat and laying it unceremoniously across the length of the couch beside her purse. Ignoring Daggett, she went to stand before Bane. Folding her arms tightly across her small chest, she peered up into his impassive face. He returned her gaze, his eyes still dancing with that mysterious light. She was close enough now that she could mildly catch the scent coming off his coat.

_Iron._

"I look forward to working with you – Bane." she murmured. The name felt foreign and menacing in her mouth. "I'm pleased to make your acquaintance."

When he spoke again, Susan had forgotten the mystifying elegance of his accent; and how the polished melody of his voice clashed so terrifically with the cold and grating filter of his mask.

"The pleasure is all mine."

And then, with a brief martial nod of his head, he turned and briskly left the room.

0000

Susan sat silently in the cool darkness, staring plainly at the thin lines of yellow light playing in the glass of the mirror on the opposite wall. It must be mid-morning by now, she reasoned. Up here in the stratosphere, however, you couldn't hear the city. In fact, the entire world felt very far away.

She threw yet another idle glance around her new workspace. More of that off-white marble, smooth vanilla walls, which were bare save for the long, gilded mirror. In the middle of the room were a simple wooden table and a few matching chairs, the first pieces of unassuming furniture Susan had seen in Daggett's apartment. She suspected the room may have once been a dining room but had long since been forgotten. Or was simply never used. It wouldn't surprise her if Daggett never entertained anycompany.

The sallow well-dressed man from the day before, who she had correctly assumed to be Daggett's personal assistant and who introduced himself as simply 'Stryver', had shown her in.

"This room will be yours," he'd stated mechanically, showing her into the dark and impersonal space which was just down the hall from the front room. He stepped briskly before her not bothering with the lights and she followed slowly, being careful to take in every detail. The man fixed her with his cold eyes and she regarded him with the same discomfort.

"The proper provisions and necessary equipment have already been supplied," he clipped, gesturing to the three large industrial crates waiting on the table in the middle of the room, "Mr. Bane will be in to see you shortly."

_Mr. _Bane. She had had to stifle another snigger; he either didn't notice or didn't care to. "Thank you," she replied with a curt nod of her head.

He returned the quick gesture and made for the door but Susan, with casual interest, stopped him with a small request. "Do you think I could trouble you for some tea? Some hot tea?"

He had blinked at her, standing for a minute in the doorway, and then promptly left.

So Susan had done without her tea. And done without her purse as well. The same sorry assistant had confiscated it from here rather tersely just before showing her down the hall. For security purposes, he'd assured her. She had been irritated but complied and now wished she hadn't. Her nerves were already on edge and the familiar want of a cigarette, an insistent itch at the back of her throat, did not help any.

Unloading the crates, she would admit, had calmed her some. Her curiosity had won out over her mild apprehension and once Stryver had left she had taken to them almost immediately. Inside the first were simple office supplies. A few folders and notebooks, pens, pencils, erasers, and a basic laptop she could only guess was meant for typical data entry and further research. Within the second she'd found a set of recognizable equipment: beakers, test tubes and rubber stoppers, Bunsen burners, a metal balance, etc. Items so familiar put her at ease and setting them up on the table with careful attention made her feel as if she were at home in her own proper space.

The third box, unmistakably heavier than the first two, had contained a more serious piece of machinery. A gas chromatograph. Susan had had some experience with the apparatus at university and at Biotech although the one that had been provided her was conveniently smaller. The machine, she knew, was used for separating, identifying, and analyzing gas compounds. After carefully hoisting it from its box and onto the table, she'd spied an item she had overlooked sitting in the bottom of the crate: a small rectangular box. Inside she found a couple hundred hypodermic needles, a few tourniquets, a basic first-aid kit, and a mystifying amount of morphine.

The clear little bottles smiling up at her, Susan was reminded of the time she'd broken her arm as a child on yet another international family excursion. The break had been simple and easily fixed, but the pain of the healing bone nearly split her in half. She'd been prescribed morphine.

It was the sweetest sensation her little body had ever experienced. The pain had been flushed away with her feelings, her concentrated thoughts of sadness or disappointment or fear washed clear from her mind. Complete and total insentience. A perfect and regrettably unattainable kind of numbness that she had unconsciously craved and had attempted to simulate all her life…

Susan stared at the bottles now, plucking one from the box and rolling it in her hand. She squinted in the low light to read the label and couldn't help but smile wryly.

_Warning: may be habit forming. _

No kidding.

She suddenly became aware of a presence in the doorway. Her heart leapt up into her throat as her eyes met the massive form where it stood unmoving and impassive at the mouth of the room. She set the bottle back onto the table to keep from fumbling it in surprise.

"Hello," she said civilly, drawing herself up as she took a long deep breath. Susan searched for his eyes but they were lost to the dim light.

There was the low, ominous hiss of his mask. "I am sorry to have startled you."

She was taken aback by his apology and momentarily lulled by the melody of his voice. She shook herself and swallowed stiffly. "Have a seat. Please."

She nodded to one of the few sparse chairs clustered around the table. Bane ambled into the room. Two strides was all it took for him to close the space between them. Pulling the chair out from under the table, he turned it about and took a seat directly before her. Susan, admiring his easy grace, was under the impression that he had done this before.

She could see his eyes clearly now as they were bearing into hers, meeting her gaze with the same rousing intensity as before; it wasn't enough, however, to move her. She returned his gaze patently. His eyes had a bit of green in them…

"We were never properly introduced," he drawled and she blinked.

"My name is Susan Isley."

He gave a deep nod. "Dr. Isley."

"I'm not a doctor," she started, almost smiling at the assumption, "I was hired simply on the basis of my expertise."

"Funny," he murmured after a moment, the mask hissing lowly, "Most of the women Daggett usually _hires _say the same thing."

Susan saw the corners of his eyes crinkle. Beneath the mask, he was smiling. Her gaze hardened at his comment.

"Well fortunately for you I am working _for_ him rather than _under_ him," she clipped, idly removing a piece of lint from the knit fabric of her dress, "And I know what I'm doing."

Bane seemed struck by her bite and the bemused light fell away from his eyes. He stared at her plainly now and she regarded him coldly as she watched his eyes travel up and then down her frame, so slight in comparison to his.

"Do you?"

Susan would be honest. She did not. But she could learn readily and glancing him over, she quickly noted a few important details. The cylindrical canisters fixed to the back of his mask near the nape of his neck, for example, which she could only guess supplied the 'good stuff' Daggett had mentioned earlier.

"Let's get started."

She had only leaned forward, her hand moving for the mask, when he caught her by the wrist. His movements were so quick, almost animalistic, that she froze. Their eyes locked. His intention was clear in the cold ferocity of his gaze.

_Don't touch the mask. _

She stared at his hand, holding fast to her wrist. He could snap it like a twig, she observed. She tried to fix her face with a calm confidence but she struggled. She only worsened when, relinquishing his grip, he curled her hand in his and held his fingers to her pulse.

"Again," he rumbled, "I am sorry for startling you." He stared up at her, his fingers ghosting over the quick rhythm of her blood. There was something far away in his eyes.

Susan slowly pulled her hand away, regarding him with a mixture of awe and unease. His touch had been too intimate. She did not like it.

When the tense moment had settled along with her pulse, Bane glanced away from her to examine the objects on her work table. Reaching over he picked up one of the needles and a small collection tube and fastening the one to the other, gently slid the finished product across the table to her.

"Draw my blood, Ms. Isley. I assure you you'll find what you're looking for."

Susan took up the needle, weighing it in her hand. She looked on as Bane shrugged out his jacket and began rolling up the left sleeve of his fitted black t-shirt.

"You're left handed?" she wondered aloud as she watched him tie the tourniquet.

He paused, her off-hand interest slowing his focus. "No," he replied shortly, knotting the cord. The smell of rubbing alcohol filled the small space between them as he began to sterilize the pale skin in the crook of his arm. Then, he laid his arm on the tabletop and clenched his fist, staring up at Susan, waiting patiently.

"Proceed."

And she did. Taking his arm in her slender hands, she quickly found the thick blue vein and slid the needle in. He didn't even blink. Her eyes wandered idly along his figure, regarding the smooth, muscular curve of his arms and the imposing breadth of his torso. Peering down into his face, she noted the almost feminine arch in his eyebrows. She smiled in spite of herself and was thankful he was not looking at her, his eyes cast elsewhere, full of that distant light.

When the tube was full, she removed the needle. Bane's hand was right behind hers with a cotton swab. She wondered, almost bitterly, why he needed her at all. Moving away from him, she cast the needle into the trash and sealed off the tube. She cradled it in her palm, relishing in the color of its contents. Bane's blood was beautiful. Rich. A healthy and vibrant red.

Susan, in her strange and silent interest, did not even hear him stand and it was not until she had set the tube aside for later that she even noticed he was gone.


	4. Chapter 4

Bane had been right. His blood proved more invaluable than Susan could have imagined. She'd gone home after collecting the sample, finding no reason to stay. No one had objected to her leaving and she would later discover in the weeks to come that she was no longer bound to a strict schedule; she could come and go as she pleased, an arrangement she found optimal.

In the comfort of her own lab, she had run the appropriate analysis to find Bane's blood swimming with a number of powerful narcotics. She'd even found small traces of cocaine. The gas administered by his mask, she deduced, was composed of a number of analgesic drugs; she'd promptly compiled a list of her findings.

Her work began.

She would admit she had been out of practice; her work at Biotech consisted mostly of data entries and laboratory analysis – paperwork. She hadn't been involved in direct production since the start of her career but her proficiency hadn't left her. She enjoyed the precision, the delicate detail, the fine chrome finish of her tools. And although the harsh fumes of the chemicals drew tears to eyes and reddened the end of her nose, she savored the focus of her work.

She didn't quite know if she could say the same for her company.

Daggett was a nuisance but she thankfully saw little of him except for a rare morning or two when she'd arrived early enough to pass him on his way to work – or worse, when she worked well into the evening and had to endure the lewd and raucous sounds of his "private parties" from down the hall. However, she couldn't think too little of him. He had made good on his end of the bargain and Susan had come home every Friday thus far to find a crate of expensive and highly sought-after equipment waiting just outside her door.

Bane, on the other hand, proved far more baffling.

She hadn't expected to see him in the weeks following their first rather tense encounter; in fact she hadn't expected to see him ever again, a prospect that to her seemed all together ideal. But he had returned several times in the following week for no reason at all. He had returned simply to watch her work. To keep her company.

It bothered her at first and she often wondered, glaring at him from time to time, if he didn't have something better to do than sit and stare and make occasional conversation and _hiss_. But as time passed, he unnerved her less and she found a strange comfort in his presence. He was calm and eloquent and intelligent and these were things she admired. Sometimes he talked to her, about something in particular or about nothing at all; other times he remained silent, watching her work with an almost keen interest.

She didn't know what he wanted, what he sought in her company, and frankly she didn't care.

000

Bane had decided he liked Susan Isley.

He had decided the very moment they met because, standing before him, a pale and inconsequential creature, she had laughed at him. There were not a great many things that puzzled him but her reaction had struck him – appealed to him in many ways, among other things.

The month was drawing to a close and preparations were well under way for days ahead. He saw to his business in the sewers and was kept readily occupied. The plan had already been set into motion. The pawns were in place. The seeds sown for the harvest to come. Bane trusted Barsad to facilitate in his absence and trusted his men to execute their duties with discretion. If not…they were made into an example. And quickly replaced.

Since he could not yet move freely about the city, he was restricted to the base and to Daggett's apartment. This captivity he resented and reserved a special hatred for Daggett and his home. The irony of it amused him: he was resigned to spend his time in the midst of the corruption and affluence he so fiercely loathed.

He'd stripped the room he occupied of any luxury and spent most of his time there either avoiding Daggett, whose company he found irritating and his questions unnecessarily officious, or gazing out at the city. He had chosen the room for the view; standing before the window, he would lose himself to the vast and unimpressive landscape of Gotham. There was no horizon. Only a smear of brown fog, where the gray of the city bled into the gray of the sky. He would be happy when it was gone.

His meditation would carry him then to something, someone very distant. A face, a few sparse and pleasant details that he had somehow managed to salvage from the jetsam of his memories. The meager solace he found was found in moments like these.

That was until Susan Isley arrived.

He had been the one to suggest to Daggett hiring a professional to replenish his necessary supply of painkillers. He'd expected some hardened physician but it had been Daggett's choice entirely and Bane should have suspected that he'd hire a beautiful woman. Beautiful she was. With pale skin, a low and handsome brow, and round child-like eyes. And it was for her beauty that Bane doubted her.

But she had proven him wrong. Brilliantly, although he would not readily admit it. What stirred him most, he believed, was the fact that she did not fear him. When he stared at her, she met his eyes with an equally powerful if not impassive gaze. It was only when he had touched her during their first encounter had he seen _something _resound within her.

He'd been inspired to rouse more reaction from the apathetic "doctor". So he came back when his time would allow.

She had been surprised and much to his delight, even a little annoyed by his visits, at least at first. He did not talk much initially, opting instead to observe. It amused him to watch her and he enjoyed the methodical grace with which she worked; and while his attentive eyes had evidently unnerved her at first, he had seen her settle under his gaze and almost _welcome _his company. His interest sparked.

Who was this stolid Susan Isley? And did he have to break her arm to break the apathetic steel in her eyes?

He would discover that all he had to do was talk.

She was easy and blithe in conversation and didn't mind his questions. She smiled at him easily and looked upon him without fear. He could often feel her eyes upon him when she thought his attention elsewhere but her interest was neither indecent nor apprehensive. It was simple, almost innocent curiosity. She was witty and sharp and spoke with a clear and honest intelligence. He appreciated her wry and subtly sinister humor with which she often deflected many of his more intimate questions. He could tell quite easily that she was a woman formed totally and completely out of repressive action. It was her own doing. She suppressed herself. Many a time he had seen her eyes grow bright with rage, with a bit of violent inspiration at some comment or critique he had given. But it faded swiftly and her apathy returned and he felt an odd sort of disappointment roll through him at the loss of that light. He recognized it as the reaction he desired.

Bane reasoned that if Susan Isley were to break completely, her cold demeanor might melt away to reveal a truly worthy creature.

But for now she was fetching and clever and Bane enjoyed her company, in silence just as much as in conversation. In their more quiet moments, when either he had nothing to say or she would simply refuse to entertain his banter, he liked to watch the light play off her hair. Of all her qualities, her hair was his favorite. The color. He couldn't recall ever seeing such a color, but there was something about it that drew him, that delighted him in some strange way.

Today she'd pinned it back and Bane eyed the plait curled around her shoulder with mild displeasure; it was less impressive when she wore it that way. However when he'd ambled into the room that afternoon, bored with the stock exchange blueprints he'd been studying in his quarters, he could tell she was in the sort of mood that wouldn't tolerate his teasing. But he would see what he could get away with for the sake of rousing his own amusement.

"Believe or not, I've missed you Susan," he rumbled lightheartedly, settling into his usual place at her work table. It was not all-together untrue. He hadn't seen her for some time.

She did not answer. Did not even react to him using her first name which he knew she thoroughly resented. She simply stared down at the table; arms folded across her chest, her hand tucked under her chin, her eyes heavy and serious. Bane followed her gaze.

Sitting on the table was a couple of small glass tubes full of a clear, pinkish liquid. He realized at once. It was his medicine. She had completed her task.

"Bane," she said quietly and his eyes jumped back to her face. She was quiet for a moment and he waited. "I need you to remove your mask."

Her words struck him so suddenly he was unsure how to react. There was no question in her voice. Only command. He was in the midst of debating a more offensive or defensive strategy when she spoke again.

"The medicine is finished," she explained, "But I need to test it. Without the influence of the drugs you are currently inhaling through your mask….I'll inject them intravenously. If the medicine is effective, you'll be able to take it by inhalation as well. But first – "

"Ms. Isley, I don't believe you understand the gravity of your request," he remarked, placing his hands on his knees as he leaned forward to stare into her face. She didn't shrink under the fury of his gaze.

"I know precisely what I'm asking," she replied, uncrossing her arms and moving to stand before him, "This is necessary, Bane. And as your physician - "

"You've no power over me," he snarled, standing to leave. She caught his arm as he turned for the door and her actions surprised him so much that he actually faltered. He felt her nails digging into the worn leather of his arm brace. He stared down at her hand; there was pink blossoming around the pale of her knuckles.

"Don't be such a coward," she spat and at her impossible words, his eyes flitted to her face. Rage. Such a violent degree of rage he hadn't felt in a long time, not since his induction, not since he'd learned the proper discipline. He could not believe her insolence. He countered her, drawing nearer, breathing hard and slow with fury. Towering over her, he peered into her face and caught a glimpse of that rare ferocity, flashing fantastically in her typically stolid blue eyes. Later he would say that it was that peculiar light that kept him from reducing her slender frame to a pretty pile of porcelain dust where she stood.

He would never admit, however, that her audacity had impressed him. If only a little.

Without a word, he tore his arm out of her grip and lowered himself back into the chair, his firsts clenching and unclenching fitfully. "Ready the medicine," he growled, glaring at her as he began to roll up the sleeve on his left arm. She watched him for a minute and Bane could've sworn he saw the ghost of a satisfied smile playing across her lips.

But she turned then and did as he asked.

As he sterilized the injection site, trying to settle his focus with the familiar repetitive motion, his mind reeled. Few people had seen his face without the mask. Or rather what remained of his face. It was not a privilege he handed out willingly.

No one before had ever had the nerve to actually ask him to remove it. He thought he would die before he'd bow to such an incredulous request; those unworthy of his audience would have to pry the mask from his cold dead face. And yet here he was, tying off the tourniquet, laying out his arm for Susan Isley.

She stood before him now with the ready syringe in her hand. He saw her eyes follow his hand as it moved to the back of his head. His fingers met the familiar mechanics of his masks and he slowly undid the clasps. There was a click and Bane saw her eyes widen ever so slightly.

He held the mouthpiece to his face, breathing deeply, relishing in the final moments. Dreading the mind-bending pain that he could feel already creeping up the back of his spine. And in that moment, he hated her for it.

"Ready when you are," she murmured softly. Her face had paled considerably he noticed and the passion in her eyes had stilled. He saw that she was nervous. Not afraid, but anxious that she might hurt him. Her pity disgusted him.

He took one final hit from the mask and moved it away, shutting his eyes as he readied himself for the pain. He felt the first flickers of it, bubbling up from the base of his spine. He felt the familiar sting of the needle and the light pressure as she emptied the barrel into his system.

And then the feeling floored him.

No, it lifted him, sweetly, sensuously, into a brilliant pink haze. He felt his broken mouth water, his eyes wet from the strength of this new more potent drug, his cold skin flush with near immaculate relief. He felt nothing – but it was more than nothing. It was everything. It was that horizon he could never find. It was fulfillment. It was clear and divine painlessness.

What had she given him? What had she _done_ to him?

Suddenly he remembered himself and opened his eyes. Through his near-euphoric haze he saw that Susan Isley had turned her face away. She would not look at him. Not out of expectation of his disfigured face. But out of respect.

He was surprised and secretly grateful. He felt his disgust and hate for her melt away within him. He felt the sudden urge to touch her hair…

"How do you feel?" Her voice broke through the haze, low and calm.

"It will suffice, Ms. Isley," he sighed and his breath tasted almost sweet. He gathered himself and stood; his back straightened without the usual twinge and he yielded to a small triumphant smile. "You've done well, my dear".

Bane placed a hand on her shoulder. He saw her visibly tense, whether at the affectionate name or the touch he could not tell. She still would not look at him.

"Thank you, Bane." She waited only a moment more before moving out from under his touch. The silence was heavy between them. His eyes lingered on the pale of her cheek, the brilliant red of her hair. And then collecting his things, without another word between them, he left.

Back in his own quarters, he almost reluctantly returned the mask to his face. He had enjoyed the fresh air on his stale flesh. What's more his current drugs were almost disappointing in comparison to the one's Susan had administered. He wondered idly when he'd receive a full supply…

He could feel the soft pink haze receding from his mind with every hit from the mask and in its place there came the old familiar ache in his bones and in his head and in the hollow of his chest. Standing before his window, his fleeting and perfect numbness soured to malcontent. He shoved his hands in his pockets to keep them from shaking.

A few moments passed and Bane could sense someone at the doorway to his room. He almost half-hoped it was Susan Isley but caught no hint of her floral perfume. He realized with great dismay that it was Daggett.

"Her work here is finished," he murmured, eyeing Daggett's reflection in the mirror.

"And the quality?"

_Wonderful. _

"Sufficient."

Daggett nodded. "Right then. I'll make the call to Jason Woodrue. I'm sure he'll be more than willing to accept our offer."

His eyes narrowed and he turned his head only slightly to look at the pathetic little man in the doorway. "And what did we offer Mr. Woodrue?"

"To triple his paycheck," Daggett smirked.

Bane felt his lip curl beneath his mask as he turned back to the window. It was all about money in this putrid, godforsaken city. They'd steal for it, lie for it, _kill _their own for it…

"It's a shame really," Daggett continued, "Such a looker. She could've been more useful to me."

Anger rose suddenly to the back of his throat and he felt his fists clench tightly in his pockets. He had half a mind to throw the nauseating little man out the window. The vehemence of his reaction startled him. He stifled it quickly.

"Make the call."

When Daggett had gone, Bane's mind wandered wistfully back to Susan Isley. He was sorry to say he had grown fond of her. But she, he reminded himse,f like many others involved in his operation, like Daggett himself, was a loose end that must be tied.

0000

Susan couldn't sleep. She sat cross-legged on the floor of her living room, her hands set uselessly in her lap. There was no occasion for a fire but she'd lit one anyway and she stared into the hearth now, willing herself to be lulled by the heat and low crackle of the burning kindle. Her body, although plush and warm by the comforting fire, did not listen for her mind was busy.

She didn't know how to feel about the day. It was her last day working for Daggett. At his personal request at least. Of course she'd finished her work and done it well. There'd been no doubt of that in her mind. The drugs had been conducive to her patient and the concoction of narcotics in his system had been relatively simple to reproduce even if she had tweaked it ever so slightly to strengthen it. She figured with the drugs he might even be able to function without the mask for long periods of time…

The pride she might ordinarily feel for a job well done was muted tonight however by the fact that she would not get to see the result of all her hard work. Speaking from a strictly clinical viewpoint of course, she was somewhat disappointed that her encounters with Bane were drawing to a close. She would of course have to make the trip to Daggett's again tomorrow to deliver the bulk of drugs she'd prepared, now eagerly waiting on her lab table.

She hadn't been expecting any farewells. No soul searching goodbyes. He had left her that afternoon without a word, with her still shuddering from his sudden and unusually friendly touch. Her thoughts strayed once more to the possibility of his face. She would not deny that she had almost looked; in fact the temptation had been almost overwhelming. But she knew she couldn't. It would've been too much like seeing him naked.

Yes, Susan decided dryly: it was best that she was leaving.

Bane had been a brief and absurd chapter in her life, if you could even call it that, and she was anxious to dismiss him from her thoughts. From her waking thoughts at least. She couldn't trust her mind anymore, couldn't trust the shadows in her bedroom that hissed and rumbled and teased her with that lilting voice...she thought of his eyes, his hand on her shoulder. Her stomach turned and with a grimace, she tore her eyes from the flames and reached for the mug of tea she'd been neglecting on the nearby coffee table.

The mug was poised at her lips when she heard the knock at her door.

She paused, listening.

Another knock. An urgent rapping.

She swallowed stiffly, setting the mug aside. She could not _fathom _who would be calling on her at this hour. It was nearly midnight now. She was almost set on ignoring whoever it might be when the knocking came again, louder. Her curiosity would once more win over her apprehension.

The floor whispered under her feet as she moved down the hall toward the door. She felt a mild sense of déjà vu creeping over her as she thought of that night with her mother, the night of the unfortunate news. Peering into the peephole, she was grateful and instantly relieved, if not slightly confused, to see a familiar face. The door swung open with a gentle sigh.

"Jason?"

The hit came so suddenly that for a moment she didn't feel the pain. Only the shock. But it all came rushing to her, an angry blistering pain, as her assailant moved into the room and grabbed her violently by the hair. She realized however that Jason was not alone for she could see him through the tears in her eyes, swinging in and out of focus before her.

"I'm sorry," he muttered his face white with panic, "I'm so sorry, Susan."

There came a harsh and blinding light and she realized whoever had her by the scalp had dragged her into the lab. The farthest room from the hall. She was flung carelessly into a row of metal cabinets and it was then that she was able to get a good look at her intruders.

Jason Woodrue. And…Stryver.

"What the fuck is going on here?" Her words were strangled as her eyes flickered between the two men. Her skin had split where one of them had hit her and she could feel the blood rolling in fat droplets down her cheek.

"Go on then. Get it over with," Stryver muttered dryly to Jason, gesturing to her with a long pale hand. It was then she noticed the gun in Jason's hand. It looked so out of place, so absurd. She didn't laugh, however.

Jason didn't look so good. His face had grown paler in the strident light of laboratory and a few scattered drops of perspiration were collecting on his forehead. His eyes darted around the room in a panic as if he were the one about to be executed.

"Jason," she began again, lowering her voice to a more soothing pitch. His gaze flickered up to meet hers. "Jason…what are you doing here? Why are you here?"

He looked as if he might vomit. "They're offering me so much money, Susan."

She swallowed hard. "They?"

He shot a glance over at Stryver who remained as impassive as ever. She realized instantly what he meant and idly remembered wondering to herself whether or not working for Daggett entailed anything criminal.

She supposed she had her answer now.

Her mind was racing along with her heartbeat but if she was going to survive she would have to be calm. "You don't have to do this," she murmured, taking a slow deep breath.

"Oh but we do," Stryver stated coolly, "Your services are no longer required by Mr. Daggett. That makes you a loose end."

"You could make an exception."

"But we won't."

His eyes were the blackest Susan had ever seen. She thought of Bane suddenly. If she had ever needed him as an ally it was now.

"Jason?"

Stryver's voice coaxed the gun up to find its mark. Jason's hands twitched and Susan eyed the barrel of the gun as it trembled dangerously. His finger slid over the trigger.

It took her all of two seconds to pick up the nearest beaker and fling its contents into his face. He screamed violently and she smelt the putrid scent of burning flesh as she knocked the gun from his hand and made for the door like a madwoman. Stryver was quicker though and she shrieked when she felt his hand entangled in her hair once more. He hoisted her up and held her back to his chest.

"Now, now," he hissed, his breath hot on the back of her neck. He forced her up against the lab table. "Daggett was right about you. Feisty." She felt her stomach drop and she didn't notice she'd begun to cry until she saw the tears spatter onto the cold, clean steel counter.

He turned her roughly around and she saw that he'd produced another gun. He was steadier than Jason, who continued to groan in a heap on the floor. She winced when she felt the cold barrel press into the soft valley between her breasts. The tears flowed freely now but she would not sob for him. She fixed her face with cool defiance, glaring at him.

He stared into her face, a small sickening smile on his lips. To her immense disgust, he reached up with his free hand and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. "What a waste," he observed and the gun went off between them.

Fire.

Susan was on fire.

The flames rose up in her chest and consumed her, stole the very breath from her lungs. She felt herself falling, her hands flailing wildly for something, anything. She smelt ash. She could feel herself melting into it. There was the beautiful tinkering sound of broken glass. Vials showered down around her and the floor beneath her hands was wet with chemicals, toxins, powders, and chlorophyll…

And blood. There was blood everywhere…it filled her head, her eyes, her mouth. Very distantly she heard the slam of a door somewhere. Her eyes lulled and her hand fell away from the swampy red wound on her chest. She was overtaken by a sudden calm. Sweetly, slowly.

She closed her eyes. The fire rose.


	5. Chapter 5

It did not occur to Susan that she was alive. Not at first.

Her eyes were wide and still. The air was green. All she could see was green. All she could hear was the soft lilting rustle of…something. It was a whisper in the deafening silence, like the wind sighing in the trees.

A dream, maybe. Yes, a dream, she decided. That was all it had been.

Time passed slowly. Or quickly. She couldn't tell. She couldn't move. When she tried to uncurl from her position, she found herself bound by some thick rope of sorts. It felt rubbery and smooth and she didn't mind all that much…her thoughts swam lazily about in her head but she was happy nonetheless that there was blood enough to keep them buoyant.

She tried again to move and felt a twinge in her chest, a low and tender ache…Panic struck her then, as the memories dribbled in through the haze of her mind. She flailed and felt the burn deep in her chest; as the light reached her eyes she saw at last what bound her. Vines. Thick and oily, dark green and violet, enfolding her in their rubbery arms. Her scream caught in her throat and as she reached up to tear them away, managing at last a bit of strength, to her surprise they moved away. As if by her volition.

She was almost afraid to move. She waited, lying quite beneath the cold new light, watching for any sudden movements. When there came none she sat up, slowly, careful not to disturb her surroundings.

Susan was right where her intruders had left her, but she found her laboratory had been dramatically redecorated. Stretching across the great expanse of floor, where there had once been unblemished white linoleum, was a thick carpet of leaves and vines, as beautiful and lusciously green as it was inexplicable. It had wound itself around everything, curled itself along every surface. She saw that the flora had formed an almost protective casing around her while she – slept? Died?

She couldn't fathom how she had survived. The silence of the lab was still ringing with gunfire; she could faintly smell the powder beneath the sweet moist aroma of the vines. However, the wound did not remain. It was only an ache in her chest now. Glancing down to survey the damage, she found that the mottled, pulpy hole had sealed completely and the only evidence of any abnormality was the coloring. An eerie green.

She began to cry again, rewetting her chalky pale cheeks. But she wept silently not for herself, not because of the careless brutality she'd been shown. She was just so _fucking _confused. She could not force her mind to reason, to start with what she knew. No, her head was heavy and slow and the tears were warm against her skin.

She winced suddenly as she felt something curl into the crook of arm. A vine. They were moving again. Susan had half a mind – if any – to slap it away until she realized that it was….meant to be comforting. She stared instead, watching its dark leaves shudder with each of her low shallow breaths. A single thought came to her then, clearer than any notion she'd had since waking. And more ludicrous.

"What the hell?" she sighed and focused on the little tendril.

_Move_.

The vine did as it was told. Exactly as she had summoned the thought in her mind. She stared at the plant for another minute or so, confounded by her new and incredible capacity. Quietly gathering herself, she wiped away her tears. Something felt strange. She looked at her hands.

Nestled in the soft inside of her palms, like some freakish stigmata, was a collection of hundreds of tiny green spores. Startled, she scratched at them, feverishly trying to tear them off. They remained, however, rooted to her flesh. Beneath the spores, Susan felt the irregular pattern of a few round seeds buried just underneath the skin.

The tears began all over again. And the vines, more hesitantly this time, came to her, draping themselves almost kindly over her shoulders. She did not wave them away because she realized they were _her. _A part of her now. Somehow. They gently lifted her to feet, steadying her until she could stand on her own.

Staring down at the wreckage of the lab, she couldn't help but smile even weakly at the irony. The plants she had dedicated years tending were now returning her careful affection. She tasted the salt of her tears pooling on her upper lip and she drew a haggard breath. The vines retreated if only a little.

She began to pick her way through the debris to move to the door. There was so much glass. She remembered now that after the gun went off she had sent a number of vials and plant samples crashing to the floor. They had mixed with her blood, entered her system, and….there was no logical explanation to be found. The whole ordeal seemed very far away and altogether absurd.

All Susan knew was that she was supposed to be dead and she wasn't.

Someone somewhere will be disappointed, she thought wryly and the wild laugh that leapt from her throat surprised her. Her body shook weakly with the laughter and a few more tears leaked from the damp corners of her eyes. But she was resolved. She wouldn't, couldn't waste time crying over what had become of her. She had to keep going. Forward.

Squaring herself with the door, she forcefully willed the blanket of vines to move and they did, receding quickly from the room with easy grace. Their movement uncovered a creepy figure slumped some feet away. Jason. Poor, simple-minded Jason. Caught in the cross-fire. Peering down at him, she saw that he was still alive if not in a critical condition. Whatever she'd tossed into his face had badly maimed him and she could hear his breaths coming out short and quick and pained. She stepped lightly over him and left the room.

Stryver had left everything as it was. The only evidence of a struggle was the upturned corner of the throw rug in the hall. She corrected it with an absent dainty kick of her foot. She stood at the mouth of the hallway, not knowing quite what to do. The light pressing in at the windows was a soft and tender blue. It was near dawn.

She moved mechanically to the kitchen and put the kettle on. Susan found at last she could start with what she knew. Tea. The chair was cold beneath her as she settled at the kitchen table and watched the feathery bits of snow press themselves gently to the frosted glass of the window. When the water was ready she welcomed the scalding heat of the tea but found her palms too tender to hold the mug securely.

Raising them up in the dim light, she studied the tiny, delicate growths once more. She toyed with the notion of retrieving a knife from a nearby drawer to see if she could cut out a few seeds but something within her shuddered at the thought. They really were beautiful, she thought, and rubbed the tender spores with the soft pads of her fingers.

The thrill of the sensation crawled up her spine and set her alive. On another whim, Susan flattened her hand and opening her palm to the ceiling, brought her hand up to her lips and blew. The little buds leapt into the air, spiraling, catching the light. They settled on the floor and sprouted there. Small patches of flora sprung up, splitting the linoleum. She cried out in surprise and delight at her discovery and excitedly breathed a few more buds into the air.

Whatever had become of her, whatever _she'd become_, she saw was good. She could feel it humming in her bones, a soft and reassuring murmur. She was something else now. Something _more. _

Subhuman.

No, _super_human.

Relishing the smooth feel of the seeds warren in her flesh, she wondered what other capacities she had yet to realize. Research. A crooked smile stole across her face. She would need a test subject wouldn't she?

"Oh, Jason…" She ghosted from the room and out into the hall, leaving the buds to bloom in the cool and eerie light of the early morning sun as it crept slowly into the sky.

000

He awoke at dawn, the shadows of his dream still slithering about in his head. Bane did not usually dream; they were fixtures of lesser men that he'd long since abandoned What plagued him, hounded him, tirelessly, were his memories. Faces, _her _face, far-off forgotten landscapes of stone and ice, a white and blinding light…but that night he had dreamt.

The light was paler this time, muted, and graying at the edges of his mind; there was the smell of pine, a fresh, kind scent; and a tranquility he'd never felt. In the far distance, there'd been a figure, standing, waiting for him. Her hair was red.

He sat up slowly, creasing the taught and unused bedclothes, and went mechanically to the grate to stoke the dying embers of the fire he'd built the night before. Staring into the faintly golden glow of the coals, he forced the dream from his mind. He would not think about it. Instead he recounted the events of the day previous.

The stock exchange had been a success. Wayne Enterprises was bankrupt. Somewhere across the city, he reasoned, Bruce Wayne was waking up a different man. A poor man. Reduced to civilian status.

He had not foreseen the return of Wayne's mask, the Batman, but he had posed little threat and had in fact greatly benefited his mission. The Bat had led Gotham's finest on a merry chase – allowing him to quickly and quietly return with the news of his exploit.

There had been a mild altercation with the Kyle woman. She had broken into Daggett's apartment looking for something he had promised her. Something imaginary, Bane knew, as he had had to hear Daggett gloat about the bit of false hope he had given the thief. He had been beaten – mildly, to his dismay – and Ms. Kyle had made her escape with the Batman. This sort of insubordination was only what Bane could come to expect from a common, self-serving _criminal. _

But criminals were predictable, easily manipulated, expendable. Selina Kyle would return. Her hope would reap her destruction.

After the whole affair, Bane hadn't been one to linger and left Daggett on the plush couch of his living room to whine over some injury or another. Stryver had passed him on the way to the elevator and that was when he had spotted it. A single strand of red hair. A bright and delicate curl on his cold grey lapel. He had caught Stryver by the arm and deftly plucked the hair away from him, holding it to the light. The man watched him, waiting for a response. Bane left without another word.

The sight of the hair had made it real to him. Susan Isley was dead. And at the hands of a mindless goblin. It was unfitting, unfair, missing the heroic flare he believed she deserved. He could only imagine Stryver had put his hands on her. He didn't want to think about that either…

The flames were dancing headily now in the grate and Bane rose to ready himself for the day ahead. Moving to the steel cabinets on the far side of his room, he retrieved a needle, a tubule, and a nutrition pack. He went through the motions as he had a million times, focusing intently on each action. He was careful to keep his thoughts close, so apt to stray as they were of late.

The sting of the needle recalled Susan Isley and her new and potent concoction. He could only assume she had produced the drug in bulk and that she was storing it at her private home. With things as they were, Bane would go to retrieve it himself. The idea of the drugs filled him with a quiet elation. The numbness he craved, it seemed, would at last be his…

"Sir?" Barsad, waiting in the doorway, pulled him from his thoughts. Bane waved him in and greeted his most loyal companion with a brief nod. The man returned the gesture.

"We've received a message from Daggett, sir. It seems he's upset by the status of the stocks." Bane returned the man's wry smile, his broken mouth contorting into a smirk beneath the mask, his eyes glinting balefully.

"How unfortunate. What time will he be expecting me?"

"He said it was urgent, sir."

The imp. Shaking his head at the nuisance, Bane removed the needle and disposed of it along with the empty plastic pack of TPN. "Make ready my bike," he rumbled and Barsad left with a curt nod.

He hadn't planned to revisit the apartment for some time. In fact, he had hoped even foolishly to spend the better half of the morning attempting to contact Talia. It would be three months today since he'd heard her voice, longer still since he'd seen her face…but to think of their separation lessened his resolve. He kept his thoughts close.

For now Daggett's penthouse. For the last time.

000

"How the hell did Miranda Tate get the inside track on the Wayne board?"

Bane's ears pricked up at the sound of her name. He heard Daggett before he saw him, his voice preceding him in impudent echoes as he strutted down the hall towards the parlor. Bane withdrew his hand from the small, blue hand-blown glass vase he had been toying with idly.

"Was she meeting with Wayne? Was she _sleeping _with Wayne?"

He fists clenched horribly and he tensed at Daggett's insolence. In time, he breathed, in time.

"Where's Bane?"

"We told him it was urgent."

"Then where is the masked –" Daggett turned into the room, his piggish eyes black and narrow with frustration. Stryver was right behind him.

"Speak of the devil and he shall appear," Bane drawled, drawing himself up with an elegant flare of his large hands. Daggett was not amused and hurried toward him, his little limbs swinging angrily.

"What. The hell. Is going on?"

He peered down into the man's face, yellow and balmy with frustration. "The plan is proceeding as expected."

Daggett's lip curled grossly. "Oh really? Do _I _look like I'm running Wayne Enterprises right now? Your hit on the stock exchange – it didn't work, my friend. And now you have _my _construction crews working all hours of the day! How's that supposed to help my company absorb Wayne's?"

Bane would admit he felt a small amount of pity for this man. So entrenched in his envy, his covetousness. He could not even begin to grasp the magnitude of coming events. And Bane was almost sorry that he would never get the chance to.

Almost.

"Leave us," he murmured, his eyes flickering over to Stryver. The cold man looked content to do as he was told.

"No," Daggett called, whirling around. "You stay right there. I'm in charge!"

"Do you _feel_ in charge?" His hand settled gently on his shoulder and he felt Daggett tense beneath his almost tender grip. The man turned, his face frozen with alarm. His hauteur was gone.

"I paid you a small fortune," he said hoarsely, his voice coming out as no more than whisper.

Bane almost laughed. "And that gives you power over me?"

Daggett regarded the hand on his shoulder. Nervous. "What is this?"

"Your money and infrastructure have been important. Till now."

Their eyes met and Daggett realized the gravity of his mistake, the sheer power of his "investment" that Bane had kept well minimized to convince this impudent little man that he by some miracle held precedent over him. Until now.

"What _are _you?" he gasped. He stiffened as Bane's hand moved up to cradle his soft skull.

Bane's eyes flashed steel and his verdict rolled out on a low and ominous hiss. "Gotham's reckoning. Come to end the borrowed time you've all been living on…"

"You're pure evil," Daggett whimpered, breaking completely in his hands. He'd seen the horror in his eyes, the cold and empty pain, the fire.

"I'm _necessary _evil."

His hand enveloped his face and the skin tore away like cellophane. Daggett's screams were muffled and wet with the sound of garbled blood. The red burst forth in great volumes and he suddenly, strangely, thought of Susan Isley. Bane reasoned in some perverted way he was winning her justice. He broke the man's neck for good measure.

Sauntering from the parlor, his hands red and twitching with triumph, he found Stryver. He observed the sweat pooling on the man's upper lip, the grimace of panic and nausea creeping steadily across his face. The smell of blood was everywhere.

"I will wash my hands," he said coolly, not bothering to look at Stryver as he addressed him. "And you will fetch me Susan Isley's address. I'm sure you know it."

The man lingered for only a second, silently recognizing the shift in power; then, collecting himself and licking the sweat from his lips, he nodded once and hurriedly left the room. Bane relished the fear, felt it quiver like a living thing in the air around him. His footsteps echoed eerily in the silence as he moved down the hallway and toward the bathroom.

When he had finished, he stepped out into the foyer to find he was alone. Stryver, having left the address on a stand near the elevator, had disappeared. Bane gave it little thought and after retrieving the information he had requested, he too departed. The day was chilly and the sky a bitter and threatening gray. It would rain and then it would freeze. Winter was well on its way. The wind tore wickedly at his bare knuckles at the handles of his motorbike; his hands were still slightly pink even for the rinse and he couldn't help but smile with a wry sort of amusement.

Ms. Isley's apartment was more luxurious than he had imagined. He pulled his bike close to the curb and parked haphazardly; he wouldn't be staying long. There were six short steps to the white door of her sturdy, attractive building. He was unsurprised to find it unlocked and walked in.

The scent of flowers was so immediate and overwhelming he actually faltered. Bane stood in the middle of the hallway, inhaling deeply. Gardenias. The perfume was the strongest and sweetest he had ever breathed. It lulled him slightly as he moved carefully into the apartment. He peered around a corner to his right. The kitchen. And his eyes widened in shock and confusion when he saw the sprouts of moss and mushrooms and odd flowers on the floor, smiling gaily in the dim light coming in through the kitchen window.

He took a step in that direction but immediately recoiled as he felt something slither past his foot. It was…a _vine. _Glancing down, he watched as it slid away from him, gliding with graceful urgency toward the opposite end of the hall. In his bewilderment, he followed. Bane could hear voices now. The first spoke in an incoherent, whimpering mumble. The second was smooth and strong and clear as a silver bell– the unmistakable voice of Susan Isley. His footsteps quickened automatically and it was not until he rounded the corner into what must have at one point been her bedroom that he found her.

The room was overgrown with foliage. Hanging vines clung to the walls, some of them blooming with black-eyed susans; small knolls of moss and mushrooms were huddled in the corners, splitting the floorboards; an assortment of flowers – poppies, lilacs, daisies – were strewn carelessly around the room. He noted with mild amusement that the petals of a few of the daisies had been ripped off as if by an anxious schoolgirl. A voluminous gardenia plant, ripe with white blooms, was spilling into the room from a box near the window – the source of the near-overpowering, sensuous aroma.

And standing in the middle of it all was Susan Isley, very much alive, her red tresses clashing brilliantly with the surrounding green. She bent suddenly at the waist and hoisted something, _someone_ off the ground. A man. Bane observed in silent astonishment as she pulled him close by the collar and ignoring his sorry, unintelligible pleas, without warning, crashed her lips down onto his. He felt his lower stomach tighten with a twinge, felt his hands twitch. But the inexplicable and uncomfortable sensation passed as he saw the man begin to convulse violently under her mouth. She pulled away and Bane watched as the man's eyes rolled back in his head, foam collecting at his mouth. A few moments more and he went slack.

Susan tossed his body aside with unknown strength and wiped her hands on her fittingly floral dress, smacking her lips almost obnoxiously. It was then that Bane noticed the vine he'd encountered in the hall had snaked its way up and around her waist to settle on her shoulder – _as if to whisper in her ear_. She stroked it absentmindedly, humming lowly but paused, tilting her head towards it. She whirled around unexpectedly, catching him in the doorway, and to his great surprise she smiled.

While Susan Isley had always been beautiful, there was something about her now that was…exceptional. Different. Her pale complexion shown with a dewy resilience; her form seemed to smolder with renewed vigor; and her hair…

"Bane." Her voice was low and sweet and absolutely unsettling. "Welcome….surprised to see me?"

He did not respond as he stepped slowly into the room, keeping a cautious eye out for any loose vines. "Who is that?" he asked finally, nodding briefly to the dead man near the window.

"This unfortunate fellow," she sighed, "is – was Jason Woodrue." She gave a quick and graceful flick of her wrist and to his utter amazement, the vines came to life. Winding themselves around the man's lifeless body, they lifted him off the floor like a pathetic marionette toy. "Have a look." She beckoned him closer.

Bane kept his distance however, near horrified by the sight of Woodrue. His face had been badly scarred by a chemical burn; his clothes muddied and torn; the rest of his skin, what Bane could see from the tears in his shirt, was pockmarked with sickly green growths and yellow blisters; his lips – where she had kissed him – were peppered with angry red lesions.

What was this? What was _she_?

"Satisfied?" she clipped and without waiting for his reply, waved her vines away; they cast the man aside unceremoniously and retreated under the bed with a sinister rustle.

"How is this possible?" Bane wondered aloud, glancing around curiously.

She shrugged, humming lightly. "I haven't the slightest idea." This she found hilarious for she began to laugh, something he had never heard her do. The sound was heady and lovely and unrestrained and her hair flashed with every toss of her head. He watched her silently for a moment, his eyes narrowed, before he reached out to run his hand across the oily, dark green leaves of unkempt gardenia. He was taken aback however, when she promptly and almost viciously slapped his hand away.

"Look but don't touch," she murmured darkly, glaring up at him with surprising menace. The mirth was gone from her face. Close as she was, he could see clearly now the light that made her eyes burn with such new brilliance. He recognized it at once. It was madness.

But the shadow dissolved from her face and she was herself again; the serene and impassive Susan Isley, smiling her knowing smile. "What brings you here?" she asked simply, moving to recline gracefully on her bed. It too was overrun with vines but they recoiled at her arrival. Bane decided he didn't like them. "I'm sure you didn't come all the way here just to say hello."

"I've come for my medicine," he replied shortly, fixing her with a wary eye.

She stared back at him with a small tilt of her head, gazing at him with mild interest. "Down the hall. On your left. You can't miss it," she sighed with boredom and glanced away to play idly with a lock of her hair.

She was right. He couldn't have possibly missed it. In three or four long strides down the hall, he reached her private laboratory to find it similarly flooded with leaves and vines. They shied away from his boots as he stepped into the room and revealed to him a scene of complete chaos. The floor was still sticky with blood and chemicals and chlorophyll. Glinting in the far corner of the room was the casing of the bullet that was supposed to have killed her. And sitting plainly on the counter was a large container; he did not have to look inside to know it was for him.

The vials inside gave a cheerful clink as he picked up his package and turned for the doorway. He had reached the mouth of the main hallway when he stopped suddenly in his tracks, a singularly simple thought dawning on him like some terrible sun.

He could not possibly leave her.

Susan Isley was, by some miracle, still alive having survived the dual efforts of both Woodrue and Stryver to silence her forever. She remained a witness. A problem unresolved. The idea of killing her here and now in the privacy of her apartment, however, appealed to him very little…In an instant, he was standing once more at the doorway to her room. He had left the crate near the door.

She was stretched languidly across her bed, her brilliant hair fanning out around her face. Bane was momentarily distracted as he watched her, as if by magic, produce a beautiful white-flower seemingly out of thin air. She admired it briefly before tossing it aside and as it floated daintily to the floor, he saw her create another one. He realized with some astonishment that they were blooming from her _palms_.

He quickly gathered himself. "I've decided you must leave with me, Ms. Isley."

She laughed airily, not bothering to look at him. "I'm just fine where I am, thank you."

"It was not a request."

She stilled suddenly and rose from her position on the bed, staring at him with a look that both challenged him and betrayed her alarm. There was a moment of anxious quiet and the vine inching steadily, silently across the floor had just curled around his leg when he realized what she was doing and instantly reacted. He brought his foot up and crushed the infernal thing violently beneath the heel of his boot.

Susan gasped audibly, leaping from the bed, her face contorted with furious pain. She raised her hand to summon her vines but he caught it and twisted her pale arm roughly behind her back.

"No more parlor tricks, Ms. Isley," he hissed, holding her fast against him as she tried fervently to wiggle out of his grasp. He brought his free hand up to cover her nose and mouth, smothering her gently. Suddenly, he felt her cold lips press into the rough skin of his palm and the action startled him so completely he withdrew from shock. It was the diversion she needed. She expertly squirmed out of his grasp and ducked around him, racing into the hallway.

She had not made it halfway when he caught her with a hard blow to the face; she'd made the mistake of looking back. He had not wanted to hit her but she was being difficult. Not unlike the old Susan Isley. She had fallen in a pool of light resonating from a nearby lamp and behind the bright curtain of her hair he could see a bruise already starting to form around her eye.

A black-eyed Susan. He chuckled in spite of himself and looked down at the hand she had kissed. Angry red blisters had sprouted where her lips had once been and curiosity flowered in place of his gross shock. _Later, _he decided and plucked Susan up from the floor before making his way to the front door. He tucked his crate of medicine under one arm and stepped outside.

He gave a quick glance around. The clouds had gathered with more certainty and shrouded the empty city block with the shadowy promise of rain. There was no one in sight and the street with silent save for the low rasp of dead leaves whispering down the sidewalk.

Bane propped the woman upon the bike first and set the crate in her lap as he slid his helmet on. Her head lolled to the side and her eyes fluttered lightly. She was still somewhat conscious.

"Oh," she slurred stupidly as he settled in behind her, "I hhhate these sorts of bikesss…" His brow quirked slightly at her comment and as they began down the street, he felt her slump against him as she lost consciousness completely. He tried not to notice the rich floral scent of her hair; the biting chill of the wind put it thankfully far from his mind as he glided swiftly around the first corner and was gone.

**A/N I thought to leave you guys with an extra long one seeing as I may be absent for a few days. Midterms have arrived and I am swamped. I'll be writing of course in my spare time but I just wanted to let you guys know about the possible wait and apologize for the late update. FORGIVE ME. HAVE PATIENCE.**

**I love you all and thanks so much for all the kind reviews. The story is obviously starting to pick up now so I hope I won't disappoint!**

**Oh and if anyone was wondering, I picture Susan Isley as Jessica Chastain, lovely lady and actor extraordinaire. Not only is she a gorgeous redhead and even more stunning actor but her and Tom Hardy have actual excellent chemistry. Try to watch their interviews together and not go down with the ship. **

**Much love. xo**


	6. Chapter 6

She was weightless. Her head was soft and the shadows close and she floated, drifting in and out of sleep. Every once in a while a voice broke through, hardly above a murmur and she became vaguely aware that she was being prodded, lifted, turned by rough, mechanical hands. But before she could protest they would leave and let her slip back into dreamlessness.

She awoke sharply at an unknown hour to a cool sensation on her forehead. Someone was pressing at her temples and the tender skin of her right eye with a wet towel. She felt two hands, gentle but firm, on her shoulders pushing her down as she tried to sit up. Resigning with a low whimper, she laid back and squinting through the bleary light tried to make sense of the features looming eerily before her.

The man was pale, unmistakably European, with a pair of blue eyes set into is gaunt face; his eyes had a dreamy quality to them that Susan found disturbing. His lips were fixed in a curious line: neither a frown nor a smile. She noticed that he, like Bane, was wearing a flak jacket.

At the thought of Bane, she groaned and felt the skin beneath the cool towel give a painful throb. _Bastard. _Her mouth was dry and her tongue felt heavy but she made at attempt at speech. "Where am I?" she croaked groggily and frowned in displeasure at her voice.

The man smiled down at her slightly, removing the cloth from her temples for a moment. He stared at her as if trying to decide whether or not to respond. "You're at base," he replied shortly and there was a ghost of a smirk on his lips as he set the towel aside, turned on his heel, and promptly left the room.

Susan stared after him in a state of confusion and rage. _At base_ – what the hell was that supposed to mean? With a weary sigh, she glanced around, squinting through the dim light. The room was small and close and empty save for the cot beneath her and a few rusty file cabinets that had been haphazardly shuffled into the opposite corner of the room. Beside the bed there was a small sideboard filled with medical supplies: a few blood-speckled pieces of gauze, a tube of antiseptic cream, and a silver bowl of water in which the towel now floated. She wished badly for a mirror to inspect the damage of her face and pressing her fingers gingerly to her right eye, she winced.

Otherwise, from what she could surmise, everything else was intact. The pretty floral designs of her dress looked tired and faded in the dull light but Susan was thankful to find herself in order; the mere thought of how long she'd been unconscious in the company of strangers – strange men – put a solid, sour rock in the pit of her stomach.

Her head reeled as she attempted to sit up and she groaned, inwardly cursing the hundreds of silver stars dancing in front of her eyes. Placing her hands on her knees to steady herself she found them bound tightly in medical tape. She frowned; she couldn't recall hurting her hands…it took her but a moment more to realize the bandages weren't there to help her but to restrict her "powers"_._

_As if anything would grow around here anyway_, she thought bitterly, throwing another dejected look around the room. It was then she noticed the figure in the doorway.

"Good evening, Susan."

The lilting edge of his voice turned her stomach instantly. She did not take his bait, instead fixing him with withering gaze. The corners of his eyes crinkled in amusement and Susan felt angry enough to spit.

"You're upset with me."

She considered tearing him apart with her bare hands but decided it was a waste of her time. "Where am I?" she asked evenly, making quite the effort to control her ire.

"Underground," he replied. The empty cabinets in the corner shuddered with the force of his steps as he moved into the room. "In the Gotham City sewer system."

A clearer, if not ridiculous, explanation than the one his lackey gave. "Why did you bring me here?" she pressed him further, eyeing him cautiously for his reaction where he stood at the foot of her cot.

He did not seem to mind the questions. "You're a liability, my dear. Simply put. I've removed you from your present…habitat," he drawled and Susan rolled her eyes at his attempt at wit, "For the sole purpose of maintaining your silence. About me. About Daggett. About our entire operation."

She frowned, disgruntled, confused; she didn't _know_ anything about the "operation" to begin with. What was there to tell? And who? There were easier methods than abduction to ensure the silence of a witness...

"Why didn't you just…kill me?" The question hung dreadfully in the quiet air. Susan watched the man standing at the end of the bed and he returned her gaze with a look of absolute calm, as if the question had never crossed his mind; but she knew better than to delude herself. He moved to her side and peered down at her over the edge of his mask, hissing lowly. He was close enough she could smell the snow melting on the shoulders of his jacket.

"That would be imprudent of me," he stated simply, extending his hand to her. The gesture was so surprisingly genteel that Susan found herself slipping her hand into his with little protest. His skin was cold and rough and his hand enfolded hers completely as she was pulled effortlessly to her feet; it was as if she weighed nothing at all.

With her hand still in his, she felt that he too had a bandage wrapped around the soft valley of his palm. She smiled wryly in spite of herself, remembering why it was there.

"Urshinol," she murmured, nodding at his hand. "That's what caused the irritation. It's what makes poison ivy…poisonous." His brow quirked slightly and she shrugged one shoulder, wondering if he expected an apology.

He looked almost amused as he turned away. "You'll do well to keep your hands covered, Susan," he called over his shoulder as he moved toward the door, "And to refrain from granting any similar affections to my men." He raised his bandage hand for emphasis and Susan sneered in disgust.

"_Why_ am I here?" she tried once more but Bane had disappeared and locked the door behind him. Her fists clenched horribly and she stifled a shriek of rage behind her teeth. Her body shook with anger and confusion and panic. She wasn't use to the violence now galloping in her blood, to the furious heat rumbling in the pit of her stomach. The impassive, cool Susan Isley was gone; in her place had grown something, _someone _else more horrible.

Susan sighed tremulously, her breathe hot and sour with sleep and resentment; she fell gracelessly back onto the mattress and lay spread-eagle, trying to force herself to think for the terrible and inconceivable pain in her head. She tried to begin with what she knew but she realized she didn't actually know anything. All she really knew was that two days ago, Susan Isley had died with a slug of lead in her heart. But _she_, whoever – _whatever_ she was, was here now; living, breathing, and very much alive.

Her new freakish "gift" had scared her at first; she had spent most of that first morning in sporadic fits of crying, her sobs only worsening every time one of the coarse green tendrils draped themselves amiably across her shoulder in a weird attempt to pacify her. But in their touch she found a strange, beautiful comfort; a calm that she had never been able to find in the arms of another human. Not with her numerous insignificant boyfriends, not with Ives, not even with her mother. And when night fell, she had curled herself once more into her green cocoon, lulled by the gentle whisper of the leaves, the soft trilling of the flowers deftly woven in her hair.

Jason had made a good test subject. The chemicals she had flung at him had landed mostly in his mouth and reduced his tongue to a twisted useless muscle. His screams were feeble if not completely silent and under the constraint of her vines, he put up little fight. With his help, she discovered she was – in a word – lethal. She could wield the flora with a thought or a simple flick of her wrist; could excrete poison through her skin at will (the toxin, she found with some amusement, was most concentrated in her lips); and perhaps most curious of all, she found she could….hypnotize her victim. Breathing lustfully across her palm and releasing a few green smiling spores into the air, she had noticed a visible change in Jason; his red eyes glazed, his mottled skin flushed pink, and his blistered mouth had curled into a smile, despite the pain of his broken body. It was later she discovered that the pollen she had emitted had been ripe with a controlled dose of pheromones.

It mattered to her very little that she had killed a man. In the name of scientific discovery, sacrifices were necessary. She smiled darkly, thinking of the way he had crumpled at her feet. Susan had never felt so powerful.

A force of nature.

_Mother Nature._

"Kidnapped," she spat bitterly, "And stuck underground." With smoldering belligerence, she peeled the bandages from her hands and threw them onto the sideboard. She washed the residual adhesive away with the still-damp towel and examined her palms. The bright green spores smiled up at her, healthy, _ready_. She smiled back.

0000

Bane found himself in front of the fire again, stoking the coals absentmindedly as he perused the thick manila folder in his right hand. Medical records, insurance forms, even a college transcript. A miniature black and white photo clipped to the corner of the thick packet of information. Susan, smiling impatiently, her hair pulled sternly back into a braid. She was younger in the picture. Just out of college, he supposed.

_The toxicologist who turned toxic_, he mused and almost laughed. The file, which Barsad had dutifully retrieved, had proven most useful. Susan Isley was just as impressive on paper as she was in person. What was more, it provided all sorts of leverage. For instance – the fact that her father had been missing for ten years. And that her real name was Susan _Pavel_. Even after reading and rereading the file he could hardly believe his luck.

Perhaps bending the woman to his will would not be as challenging as he had first thought. But he had her virulence to consider and her newfound _power_. Their location would help; the lack of sunlight would weaken her. He was glad she had not noticed the tiny pinprick in her arm where his men had drawn blood for testing. The equipment they had was shoddy and cheap but the sample they'd taken had been perhaps more informative than the file.

Chlorophyll. They'd found chlorophyll in her blood. Among a series of other toxins normally found in plants and plant seeds. Amygdalin most notably. The poison, he reasoned, she could release through her skin which was why he had found Jason in the condition he had. And why it had burned when she kissed him.

Susan Isley was a living, breathing, science experiment gone horribly awry. And as comically impossible as her condition appeared, she was also very dangerous. Bane's pride was not so that he could not admit that. But Selina Kyle had also been a strong-willed, capable woman. Everyone had a weak link. And Bane had just found hers.

"Bring the prisoner," he commanded to Barsad, who was enjoying a rare idle moment at a table nearby.

"Which one?" he inquired, rising immediately to his feet and slinging his gun over his shoulder. The two men shared a small smirk.

"Leonid Pavel."

He did not have to wait long and had just settled into Barsad's empty chair when Pavel arrived, his feet shuffling meekly across the dusty concrete. As he settled into the chair opposite Bane he placed his hands, which were bound closely with cable ties, diplomatically upon the table. Even for his fear he never lost his grace, a quality that Bane admired.

"Are we discussing the terms of my release?" Pavel began, his voice steady and certain for his chattering teeth. His clothes, dirty and worn thin with time, were no match for the cold and dank climate of the underground.

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," he replied, sliding the file to the center of the table. His prisoner stared down at it where it lay between them. "I've brought you here to discuss a more tender subject.."

The man's gaunt face contorted with a look of suspicious disgust; it was only then that Bane saw any familiar resemblance between his two captives.

"You never mentioned you had a daughter, Pavel."

A flicker of alarm. So brief, a less trained eye would have missed it completely.

"I have never known the blessing of children," he replied, his voice heavy with a well-rehearsed indifference.

Without a word, Bane flipped open the file and ripping the small black and white photo from the front page, held it before the dark haunted eyes of the man before him. The panic brimmed in them and spilt over, trickling down to fill the creases of worry in his face. There was no hiding it now.

"Please." His voice was barely above a whisper.

"You don't deny it," Bane stated merrily setting the photograph aside. He watched the sweat begin to gather on the man's forehead.

"Please," he began again, "Don't involve her. That was the whole reason I went into hiding – to protect her!"

"Let's not overexcite ourselves, doctor" he drawled, sliding the file away from Pavel's dirty fingers as he stood to move from the table. "Conserve your energy." He motioned to Barsad. "Remove him."

Pavel tensed under the hands at his shoulders. "Why did you bring me here? To taunt me?"

"Confirmation."

His eyes widened slightly with alarm. "Where is she? Do you have her? Please – don't hurt her."

Bane set the file on his desk. "Harming Susan is not part of the plan."

"Don't say her name," he spat, suddenly venomous, "Her name is poison in your mouth." There was a low screech as he was wrenched from his seat and shuffled toward the door. Bane met Pavel's glare with a small smile. He felt the bandage on his palm.

"Yes…poison."

0000

The man who arrived with dinner was short and bearded, with a skull cap pulled low over his tired eyes. The gun, strapped neatly around his shoulder, glinted in the dull light.

"Eat up," he muttered, shambling across the threshold, a tin tray in hand. As he moved into the room, the smell of undercooked meat came with him.

Susan had not expected a visitor but she saw her chance. The goon had hardly set the tray down before she overtook him, grabbing his arm and delivering a dose of her special "dust" in one swift movement. Dropping her hand to her side, she looked squarely at her prey and admired her handiwork; the chemicals were already at work.

"Leaving so soon?" she murmured, smiling as she watched his stony eyes begin to glaze over, "I hate to eat alone. Won't you keep me company?"

"Yes," he mumbled, wetting his lips slowly as he stared at her dumbly, "Of course. Anything…you say."

"Anything?" Susan pulled the man over to the cot in the corner and sat him down beside her. She would see just how much this hypnosis would allow. "Give me the gun. No need for it here. Now that you're with me!"

"With you," he drooled and dutifully handed over his weapon. She examined it momentarily before stuffing it under the mattress

"Now," she purred taking his face in her hands, "You're going to answer all my questions, with as much detail as your little brain can muster. And when we're through you'll get a kiss…is that clear?"

His teary eyes brightened at the promise and he nodded sleepily, ignorant to the wicked light playing in her eyes.

"Tell me – what you have you boys been doing down here in the sewers?"

The man turned out to be one of Bane's many drudges, who had been put to work in the sewers for some months now to protect "base" and "prepare". These preparations, much to Susan's dismay, were given little elaboration. However, it didn't take much mental capacity to deduce that these men were armed and dangerous for no other reason other than the fact that they were at Bane's total disposal. At any mention of his leader, the man's eyes filled with a loyalty and admiration unrelated to her drugs. This man – like the others – would die for Bane. Die for whatever operation they were conducting down here, knee deep in the filth of Gotham city. That sort of abandon worried her more than anything. It appeared Bane's figurative clout was tantamount to his literal muscle.

"How much fire power are you working with?" she inquired, prying the man's fingers from her hair with a sneer of disgust; the drugs were making him affectionate.

"Enough to blow up the city, I suppose," he sighed, gazing at her warmly.

Her brow quirked. "Is that what Bane is planning? To destroy the city?"

The man blinked stupidly as a slow amorous grin spread over his ugly face. "Hm," was all he managed as his head nuzzled her shoulder causing Susan to shrink away in repulsion. She could see his usefulness had run its course and with some violence, she gripped his face with her fingers and kissed him roughly. He began to convulse immediately and seemed to realize his mistake just as the light faded from his eyes in a grand moment of anticlimax.

When he had stopped twitching, Susan dragged his body from the cot and propped him hastily against the wall beside the cabinets. Straightening, she heard the far-off thunder of a running body of water and realized the deceased had left the door ajar. She padded to it quietly, thinking idly of the gun under the mattress. She had no intention of making her escape. At least, not now. The plot she had involuntarily discovered had yet to be fully realized; there was so much more to _know_, even if knowing too much had gotten her into this debacle in the first place.

She reasoned she would not have gotten far anyway.

Standing in the doorway, she caught her first glimpse of "base". The sewer facilities had been transformed by Bane's men and their military purpose. Five levels, each made up entirely of a skeleton of steel and rust and wet cement and connected by various metal catwalks. On each level there were five or six armed men on guard, patrolling unseen hallways and secret rooms. Running through the middle of the entire cavernous facility was a thunderous waterfall, its roar echoing fantastically across the stone walls. The volumes of water cascaded down into a main shoot where it flowed out into the city.

Susan watched the patrol men as they marched along, the metal of their guns flashing sharply with each precise turn and wondered briefly where their leader was. Over the roar of the water, she did not hear him approach.

"Ms. Isley."

She didn't even have time to scream. He was dragging her back into the room, one hand wound tightly in her hair and the other curled around her neck. She clawed at his hand violently, fighting to breath as her legs flailed uselessly beneath her.

"Let me make myself absolutely clear," he growled, hoisting her up with a monstrous show of strength. Her skull vibrated horribly as it hit the wall. She could see the fierce shadow in his eyes even for the blue stars dancing, spiraling manically in her own.

"You are a prisoner, Susan Isley" he hissed and she could feel the cool air of his mask whisper across her cheek, "Despite the impressive defiance of your spirit and your newfound power, do not delude yourself with thoughts of easy escape." His fingers tightened in her hair. "You will break before you leave this place. And if you insist I will inflict the damage myself. "

Her lungs were screaming for air, her eyes filling with bitter tears but she glared at him still biting her lip against the groan of pain rising in her throat. His threats shook her violently and she could feel the cold sweat of her fear drip slowly down the tense column of her back. Her lip began to bleed. In an almost ludicrous attempt to protect herself, to distract his fury, to make him _stop touching her_, she tore her hand away from the one at her throat and blew feebly across the green valley of her palm. Bane blinked at the spores shimmering weakly in the tense air between them, and shook his head as though rousing himself from a deep thought. His eyes remained a clear shade of furious gray, his skin pale and cold. Susan realized, her stomach plummeting horribly, that he was perfectly immune to her hypnotic element

There was a beat of silence before his hands slipped from her neck and her hair. She slid to the floor with a pathetic thud. He stood over her for a minute, eclipsing her completely with the length of his shadow, the frigid steel of his gaze, and for the first time, she felt…afraid.

_You will break…_

He glanced away from her then, suddenly noticing the dead man in the corner. "There will be consequences," he murmured, his voice softening considerably as he turned for the door.

Her tongue was heavy with curses she couldn't manage for the ache in her throat. It was already beginning to bruise. She could only glare through the tears in her eyes as he strode from the room. Susan hardly noticed the men who came to collect the body. When she was finally left alone, her head aching miserably, her heart hammering wildly in the sore muscle of her throat, she wept silently for the first time in many years.


	7. Chapter 7

And consequences there were. A day or so passed but they could've been weeks, months, years for all Susan knew. Time was nothing down here. Time was the sweat on the walls. Time was the click of a boot heel. Time was _his _shadow lingering in the doorway, just for a moment…only to vanish with a hiss.

The meal the dead henchman had delivered was the last she received. In her normal life, a fixture that seemed very faraway to her now, she had been a vegetarian by choice. But now she was starving; she devoured the meat and all its trimmings greedily and licked the grease from her fingers until she had sucked each one dry. Later on she found herself licking the plate. More than anything – the itch for a cigarette, the ache in her belly – she pined for water. It must've been the new floral part of her that craved it so savagely and to hear it thundering in great volumes just beyond her door made the thirst all the more unbearable.

Susan was likewise, and for good reason, denied any human interaction. Bane had given his men strict orders to avoid her room and she had spent some hours watching them resentfully through the dusty window in the door; they kept their eyes down and their hands on their guns. Bane himself never graced her with his violent company. In fact, she'd seen very little of him in her exile. One night she'd awoken to a series of agitated noises: the whine of twisting metal, quick low voices, the unmistakable and crisp clip of a semi-automatic weapon. He was upset about something, but she didn't linger on the reason. She figured he didn't need one.

A bout of confinement in the sewers of Gotham would have driven anyone else mad, but Susan enjoyed her solitude as she always had. If Bane thought this was punishment, she had often mused smugly, he was sorely mistaken. Reclusion was a warm and familiar friend, a figment of control and quiet. But sadly, a figment nonetheless. Her solitude forced her to dwell on Bane's words.

_You will break…_And he would do the breaking. There were no reflective surfaces to be found in the small empty room but she could trace the bruises that curled around her neck. She could still feel his fingers in her hair, tearing across her scalp. Susan had never felt such fear for him before as in those brilliant terrifying moments. When he had been her proverbial patient, high and away from this squalor in Daggett's apartment, she had seen him for his pain. And the repression of that pain. The braces he wore on his arm and his back. The almost undetectable wince that accompanied every low thunderous step…

His agony was constant and merciless and she had been a witness to it. She remembered keenly his outrage when she had asked him to remove his mask if only for a few small seconds. He was addicted to the analgesics after all – the entire reason Susan had gotten involved.

In a very twisted way, he needed her. He had taken the drugs from her apartment and that would last him for some time. But he would need more. Perhaps that was why he hadn't finished her off? It was a reasonable possibility. Susan had long ago laughed away the ludicrous prospects of Bane abducting her for any lascivious purposes. He was a man of action, so to speak, but rape seemed below him somehow.

Nevertheless, she tried to forget the cold ferocity of his touch and the panic that had nearly consumed her when she found herself at his feet, reeling in the depth of his shadow…

Susan found that her environment did not completely disallow for vegetation and she passed the time, distracting herself from her thoughts and her hunger, by willing crops of mushrooms to break forth from the cement. It had been a sheer force of concentration to disturb the cold concrete but she had nearly cried for joy at the sight of the dark brown caps and their rubbery spines. She managed to eat some of the thicker, friendlier looking ones but left the others untouched for their soft green glow was too beautiful to disturb.

She missed her vines terribly. Their soft whispering presence, the fresh feel of their leaves in her hair. On her own, Susan was no match for any of Bane's men physically, never mind Bane, but she figured that if she could just manage a little sunlight, a little water…she could easily escape and with little resistance.

On perhaps the third or fourth day she decided she had had enough, she devised a plan. She sat with the gun across her lap. The weapon had gone thankfully unnoticed by Bane. She checked the gun clip. Nearly full. She figured it was enough to defend herself until the rest of the plan could unfold. She would find the nearest guard, administer a dose of her chemicals, and have him guide her out of the maze of sewer lines.

She was prepared to do anything to make her escape. Whatever was necessary.

But first, the door.

Strapping the gun to her shoulder, she knelt before the door so that she was level with the keyhole. Her breath was quick and warm as she put her palm to the lock and willed her flora to do its work. The little vines, though feeble, worked deftly and she listened to the low mechanical ticking of the lock. An affirmative click and Susan sighed in relief. The door swung open with a whine.

There was gun fire immediately. She braced herself but found she was unharmed; the shots had been fired elsewhere and by the echoes still fading in the distance, she could guess the action was on some other level. Maybe Bane having another temper tantrum. She didn't stick around to find out, moving from the room and out into the hall.

The men she had seen guarding the upper and lower floors must have been otherwise occupied for there were none to be found as she edged her way along the stone walls, clutching the gun with an awkward assurance. She didn't question her luck and ducked quickly into a nearby hallway, eager to cross paths with one, just _one _imbecile. Hearing footsteps, she pressed herself into the shadow of the wall and waited. But she was unprepared for the sight that greeted her.

The Batman. He passed within inches of her, the tail end of his black cape whispering across the bare ruddy flesh of her knees as he rounded the corner. He was not alone. A woman was with him. Tall, auburn, dressed in a black suit of equal eminence, and also wearing a mask. Susan held her breath in disbelief as she watched them go. She couldn't risk being detected even by the "hero".

"Just a little further," the woman said as they neared the end of the hall. The Batman passed into the mouth of the base and was immediately separated from his companion by a sliding metal grate. It clanged menacingly as it hit the ground. Both he and Susan realized his mistake at the same time: he had fallen into a trap. Bane's trap. She looked on and managed to catch a few words of their murmured exchange.

"You've made a serious mistake." The dark eyes were wide with alarm behind the cowl. She wondered if he knew just what he was up against. And then –

"Not as serious as yours, I fear."

Bane.

His voice was all it took to push her forward. She took off without a backwards glance, disregarding the visceral sounds of the fight that had just begun in the bowels of this wet hell. Her heart hammered madly in her chest as she turned corner after corner, hastening down each corridor with her weapon at the ready. She passed several of Bane's men lying incapacitated on the ground and nudging one of them with the nose of her gun, managed to rouse him from his concussive state only to send him into a state of equal chemical unconscious.

"Lead me to the surface," she hissed, peering down into his anonymous face, "Lead me out of the sewers."

He blinked up at her stupidly for a moment before rising obediently to his feet and guiding her onward. Susan felt a leap of hope in her stomach and swallowed quickly as the guard led her down a series of passage ways. She followed closely and the sound of the fight, the rumble of the waterfall, her captivity, her miserable hunger, _Bane _were all very far from her now. Her freedom lay before her…

An explosion ripped through the left side of the corridor and sent her flying into the opposite wall. She lay there for a moment in shock, her head cocked at an unnatural angle, feeling a few sticky droplets of blood run down her neck. The heat from the blast left her delirious but through the haze she could see that her exit had been completely obstructed by flame and broken stone.

She felt an inhuman fury rise up within her, racking her body with a tremulous rage and bringing her to her feet. The gun had been thrown from her hands in the blast but she reached for it quickly, firing wildly at the smoldering pile of wreckage; her savage scream of frustration and panic was drowned out by the sound of metal and blue fire. Her involuntary guide had been killed in the blast but she emptied the rest of the clip into him for good measure, still shaking with ire. Taking up his abandoned weapon, she turned away from the debris and began the other way, her mind reeling as she searched for another way of escape.

The bottoms of her feet were burning with fresh cuts, there was blood in her hair, and her knees were shaking so violently she thought she might collapse. Her captivity had greatly diminished her strength. But she kept running. She had to. She thought fleetingly of the Batman. Eight years he'd been gone. She wondered if he survived his encounter with Bane…but she didn't care now. For at the end of the hallway, maybe twenty feet away or so, glistening wetly beneath the bleak light of a sewer lamp was a set of metal rungs. A ladder leading up to a manhole. She sprinted towards it, breathing hard, her hair wet with blood and sticking to her face.

Reaching the ladder, she slung the gun behind her and began to climb. The rungs were slick beneath her thirsty palms. Orange light leaked through the pegs in the manhole and she could feel cold air on her face as freedom loomed into view –

But then she was falling away, wrenched from the ladder by a force of massive strength. She felt the arm around her waist and knew exactly who it was. Tears sprung to her eyes as her breath left her and the gun was ripped from her body.

"No! No!" She had just enough air in her lungs to scream. A mortified shriek ripped through her, rippled across the sewer walls, as she fought desperately against Bane. She tore feverishly at his flak vest, at any bit of skin she could reach, trying frantically to find her footing.

He hissed lowly, dodging her rough blows, and adjusted his hold on her so that she was bound in his grip. She struggled feebly for another moment or so before going completely slack, allowing her arms and legs to dangle freely as he turned and started back the way she came.

"Please," she found herself sobbing with exhaustion and frustration, "Please just let me go. Just let me go." Her head fell in resignation on his shoulder and she found it covered with a fine layer of dust. His skin was heavy with the smell of gunpowder and sweat and she felt very small in his arms.

He clicked at her. "You don't listen, Susan. Your liberation is yet to come. And not as you think." The mask was hissing against her neck and she saw it was wet with the blood from her hair. She hated him with a gross ferocity.

"Please…please…please," she murmured weakly, her throat sore from her screaming.

"I am leaving, my dear," his voice echoed in the shell of her ear, "But not for long. I will forgive you for your disobedience. Eventually. But first – "

There was the sickening shriek of metal hinges and she was falling again. Her back met the concrete and a low moan escaped her throat as she blinked through the red and the tears in her eyes to find herself in the dark. The walls were wet and incredibly close, pressing in on her. It wasn't a room – it was crawlspace. Bane stood in the doorway, what little light there was glowing around the hard edges of his figure like some infernal halo.

"You must learn the truth as I did," he murmured and she watched as he wiped a bit of her blood from his cheek. It left a brilliant red streak on his pale flesh. "In the dark."

She could just make out his eyes for the shadow. And they were kind somehow, as if he were blessing her with some miracle in the cold gloom. It was the last bit of warmth she would feel for days.

Again, the scream of ancient steel. And the darkness, the horrible defeaning silence, descended once more.

000

Why wasn't she dead?

She could feel the sweet sting of death gasping in the hollow spaces of her bones. Her skin was tight and dry screaming for its life, for water, for sunlight. Her blood felt like dust. She slipped slowly into madness; the shadows crept up and swallowed her whole, down, down, down.

She _must_ have died. She wished for death.

No light, no light. No sound. Pale flesh, dying breaths. The dry scratch of broken fingernails, the merciless cold, her cage, her hope failing, falling, faraway. And it had been so close…She dreamt. Or perhaps she saw the dead. The smell of her mother's hair, close to her, as it had been when she was a child. Her father's voice, so real she almost thought to answer.

"Susan."

"Susan."

_"Susan."_

_His _voice. Ringing through her like a silver bullet, echoing in her chest, holding her still. He was here, even in the dark, even in her cold fever. She fell out of time, felt reason escape her, felt her control splinter . She wished for death and her hope for oblivion drove her further into lunacy as it evaded her, whispering in the corners of her cage, just beyond her. Slick, sinister, unfeasible silence.

Her body once had perished. And nature had found its way. By fate or by chance. And now her spirit withered. Broken by the darkness, by the cool gracious breath of hope that she had _tasted_, that she had _felt_ if only for a moment. Too brief for a moment…

She wished for death.

Her spirit withered. Fell away like leaves to the wind.

And nature found its way.

**A/N I know this chapter is shorter than the others but because it's Christmas – and I feel in the giving mood/I just couldn't stop writing – here is chapter seven. More to follow of course. Keep the faith. Things will begin to pick up quickly and I am happy to say the story is moving along brilliantly. Thank you once again for all the reviews, the follows, and the favorites. Love you all so much. xoxo**


	8. Chapter 8

The sun, warm on his face, woke him. Blinking, he straightened in his sleep and swept the small aircraft with a tired glance. The small group of men who had accompanied him on his charge was huddled near the nose of the plane; they slept with their eyes open. Their weapons were tucked beneath their chairs and were chattering softly on the carpet. Barsad caught his eye, smiling gently, but said nothing. His men, even his best, had learned long ago that silence was a harmony and he demanded it. Years of solitude and poignant stillness had conditioned him to savor it so completely. Needless talk was just that and pleasantries he found far from pleasant.

Dawn crept into the plane, soft and golden pink, and Bane savored it with his full attention. To remove himself from his own misery, many years ago during his confinement in the Pit, he had come to appreciate the heavens and the impassive beauty they possessed. He had learned to read the stars, the position of the sun in the sky, and the tell-tale signs of rain – rain had always been a welcome blessing. An escape from the dry heat and softening the blow of the coldest nights.

But the dawn was his secret treasure, his one opulence. When Talia, only a child, became his purpose and he her protector he had spent many nights keeping a vigilant watch in the cell where she slept and he had been the sole witness to the first light of day. The light, streaming golden, red, gray, down the stone walls of the prison, meant they had survived, the night had passed, and the promise of a new day lay before them. He had long learned the truth of despair, the false idol of hope. But the dawn offered redemption. The salvation he sought desperately in the pure light, in the eyes of his child companion…

But those years had passed and that redemption had escaped him. It ran on ahead of him, beyond his sullied grasp, a whisper in the cold wind. Noticing a bit of blood on his hands, he glanced away from the window to wipe them carelessly on the fine leather of the empty seat next to him. This was Bruce Wayne's plane after all and the blood was his blood. Bane was not a characteristically humorous man but he found the whole thing rather droll. That Wayne, a man of luxury and easy charm, would assume his place in the Pit and Bane would abscond back to Gotham in his plush private aircraft. Rather droll indeed. Bordering on ironic.

Still he was uncomfortable sitting in the lap of luxury. He stood and slid quietly from his seat, nodding once to Barsad – a gesture that was returned – before moving toward the rear of the cabin. The door of the bathroom clicked shut behind him. The space was small for Bane and he stood uncomfortably before the mirror, peering at his reflection in the warm light before bending slightly to wash his hands more thoroughly; the many years of avoiding disease in the Pit had trained him to keep meticulously clean. Now that the Batman had been dispatched they could move out from the sewers – and he was happy for the fact.

The sewage of Gotham was not contained underground, however. There was still much work to be done. The plan would move forward.

He eyed the ruddy stain that ran across the gray tubing of his mask and his broken mouth curled into a small smile. _All of the plans_, he mused and running a nearby towel beneath the faucet to wipe away the blood, his mind, still wet with sleep and unwary, wandered back to Susan Isley.

He had been gone for nearly a week. A day or so to make sure Wayne survived the blow to his spinal column. To prep the plane and to make the proper arrangements and flight plans. He had left her in darkness, a penalty for her unexpected – and nearly successful – escape attempt and an integral ploy in his plans for the wallflower. Without food, without water, without light, she would break and her submission would be his to do with what he would. In many ways, Susan Isley and her twisted talents were a gift to Talia and to the cause. A virile new weapon of near indestructibility at their complete disposal. Or at least that was what Bane had to continue telling himself. That Susan was a weapon to be used, no longer the keen and threateningly lovely woman who had served him and served him well.

He was anxious, almost excited, to see her again. To see how the darkness had taken its toll upon her already meager mind. The bullet had left a rosy scar on her body but her 'death' and resurrection had driven her roughly to the edge of her sanity and left her swaying like a branch in the wind. Her mind was so malleable…it was her spirit that had proved more difficult. Her will to escape, to kill, and to defy in the face of certain death and opposition surprised him. It was refreshing although troublesome. Her exile in the shadow would cure her of her violent disposition. Her small victories would cost her the war for her soul.

She would submit. Or she would die, drowning in all that shadow, starved of light and water like a neglected houseplant. He could not waste her. The thought of it made him cringe. Briskly folding the towel and flicking off the bathroom light, he returned to his seat.

"How long until arrival?" he called and the growl of his mask disturbed the warm silence of the cabin. A few of the men were jostled awake and Barsad rose from his seat to speak with the pilot. He returned moments later.

"Forty-five minutes," he reported and reassumed his seat. They exchanged another nod of comprehension and Bane returned his gaze to the window. The dawn was in full bloom now. The sky was heavy with soft golden light and the clouds were pulled taut to strain the sunlight. Like honey, it dripped across the hard black horizon and the dark skyline beyond. None of it would reach Susan however, in her exile…

The minutes trickled by in the heavens and the sun, gleaming wet and clear for the cold, guided them onto the tarmac. The promise of a new day.

000

She was beyond comprehension. The feeble flame of life, burning deep in her stomach, was a mystery. She should be _dead_. And she wished she was.

So when the light came at last, pouring into the room in great fantastic volumes, blinding gulps of white light, her tiny bones tensed with anticipation of glory. Deliverance! And the arms around her, the arms of her savior. But then she smelt it. Gunpowder. _Iron. _The disappointment washed over her in a pathetic wave, filling her with a stale sense of hatred that only ached when he said her name.

"Susan."

His voice was dear and warm and he was almost apologetic in his movements as he lifted her easily from the shadow and into his arms. She scoffed weakly and resisted him and he held her all the more closely. But he was warm, so terribly, wonderfully warm….she resigned, too weak to fight, and melted into him. She saw in the light that the floor of the cell was littered with her spores, dead spores, seeds sown on unfit ground, and she wept silently for them as Bane carried her away; she would not let him see.

It was a room she'd seen only in passing. Warm and simply furnished. Bane's room. There was a fire burning merrily in the hearth and her tears dried quickly for the heat. On the table in the center of the room there was a plate of food and a plastic gallon jug of water. For her. Sliding the metal chair from the table with the toe of his boot, Bane set her gently upon the chair and retrieving a blanket from the nearby cot, fixed it around her harrowed shoulders. He took the seat opposite her.

They stared at one another for a moment. His gray eyes, a permanent fixture of her dreams and nightmares alike, watched her patiently, half expectant. She snarled at him and picking up the fork beside the plate, tucked into the meal of miscellany before her. She didn't care if it was poisoned, soured, soiled; she couldn't taste it anyway. She felt his eyes on her still as she finished, pushing the plate aside, and popped the plastic top on the water.

Her hunger was only barely satiated but she didn't care. _This_ was what she truly desired, more than anything. And at last her thirst would be quenched. Her mouth rounded over the rim and her throat worked emphatically to down the water as she raised the jug vertically, tipping her head back like an eager flower. It was empty in a matter of minutes and toppled to the ground with a satisfyingly hollow thud.

She fixed Bane with a hard look, her lip curling wickedly. "More."

He retrieved another jug on cue and returned to table. As if the bastard knew. She ripped the top off the jug and began again, the water running in joyful streams down her throat, down the sides of her face, and into her lap.

"Do you have any family, Susan?"

The question was sudden enough to make her draw pause. The water bubbled in her throat and she gagged, coughing roughly. She lowered the jug from her mouth and fixed him with a tight, suspicious stare.

"No," she lied simply and saw the corners of his eyes twist with amusement.

"It is no use to lie to me, Susan" he chuckled, his mask giving a familiar rasp, "If I wanted to hurt them, I would have hunted down whoever it is you love long ago and done so."

"Then why ask?" she sneered, feeling a small ounce of her strength return with another swig of water.

His broad shoulders jostled with a shrug. "Conversation."

She glared at him and swallowed stiffly, a shiver breaking over her skin. He had missed her. She could read it plainly in his eyes and she wanted to vomit. She wondered vaguely where he had gone. It didn't matter. What mattered is that he had come back. He had come back and denied her hope for escape once more; he had denied her the easy, sweet salvation of death and brought her gasping back to the light. And she hated him all the more for it.

"What is this?" she spat plainly, her lips cracking from the cold. She could taste the iron on her lips and sucked them gently. His eyes were on his lips, watching their ruddy color.

"If I told you that I knew your father, Leonid Pavel, what would you say?"

She froze, staring at him, her entire body wracked with tense confusion. He was baiting her like he usually did, she knew that. But her father…what _was_ this? Some cruel ploy, another lie…she remained silent.

"And if I told you he was alive? And I could show him to you? Ten years is an awfully long time - "

"Show me," she commanded, rising from her chair. The blanket fell from her shoulders. The half empty jug was still in her hand and her hard face still wet with blood and water.

Again, his eyes crinkled with a smile and he stood. Without warning, he stripped himself of his black shirt and offered it to her. Susan sneered at it for a second but took it, climbing into it and fuming silently. The time for offense was later. Now, she was freezing to death.

"Do you need me to carry you again, dear?" he asked, his voice lilting with amusement. She simply shrugged past him and out of the room, nodding down the hallway and fixing him with a stern look. He sauntered past her, momentarily eclipsing her with his colossal shadow, before leading her down the corridor.

His shirt was heavy with the smell of melted snow and the almost sweet scent of his sweat but Susan clung to it tightly as she followed after him. The mist from the huge thundering waterfall speckled her face pleasantly as they crossed over a catwalk and she noted the uncharacteristic emptiness of the upper and lower decks.

"Where are the men?" she inquired, her eyes wandering idly.

"Elsewhere," he replied shortly. She rolled her eyes and quickened her pace as they rounded a corner. Her legs were long but his were massive. One stride for him was three or four hurried steps for her. She was sure to keep up; she wouldn't have him carrying her like a child again.

At last they reached a cell door set with rusty iron bars near the bottom. There at last stood a guard, gun in hand, his face fixed blankly. He snapped to attention as they approached and stepped aside with a small wave of Bane's hand. The door opened with a gentle turn of the handle and Susan's brow quirked curiously.

"It's unlocked?"

Bane looked over his shoulder at her. "To make the prisoner aware that escape is as easy as the turn of handle and just as equally impossible is a far more harmful tactic."

She felt her stomach turn. "You're a sick bastard." To her surprise, he laughed, his mask rumbling gaily.

"Perhaps."

With that they passed at last through the doorway and Susan felt her heart flutter wildly in her chest with expectation, try as she might to stifle her hope. It had done her no good before and she felt much too weak for another blow of disappointment. She did not know the sort of sick game Bane was getting at this time, but she would not let him best her. Not again.

"Wake up, Pavel. You have a visitor."

The tiny room was dark but she could feel the presence in the corner, shivering for the cold. When Bane reached for the lights, she held her breath. The cell illuminated revealed its only occupant and she recognized him immediately even for the pallid color of his face and the grime coating his clothes.

A cry rose up in her throat and spilled into the quiet space as their eyes met. He called her name and the tears fell freely. The water jug falling from her hands, she ran to him where he was hunched feebly on a bench in the corner and took him at last, at last, at last, in her arms. Her mind was reeling with disbelief and she couldn't stop weeping. She couldn't say a thing for the hard sobs tumbling from something deep within her that had broken in the dark; the ghost of the child she'd buried long ago.

What was there to be said anyway with the years culminating so quickly between them? He was shivering in her arms and she shrugged out of the warm comfort of Bane's shirt to offer it to him. He accepted it gladly and smiled at her. How she had fought for that smile when she was just a little girl, so eager for his approval. And at last she found it, in this labyrinth of stone and gloom, so far away from the lustrous luxury of her childhood. She couldn't care, weeping silently into his shoulder, her control forgotten. He was real, he was real and _alive_ and –

She suddenly remembered Bane where he stood by the door, silently watching the affectionate scene before him. Wiping her tears briskly, she threw a hard look over her shoulder.

"Why do you have him here?" Her voice was wet with tears and she stifled a low hiccup. She wasn't use to this crying business. Emotions harrowed her.

He only nodded toward the door, gesturing for them to leave. She would go, but first – she turned back to her father and managed a smile.

"I'll be back," she whispered, eyeing a tear as it streaked down his dirty face, "I promise."

He nodded slowly, his eyes brimming with tears once more. "Susan…"

One final embrace and she was on her feet again, moving toward the door. She fixed her face with a glare. "You will make sure he's comfortable. With plenty of food and water. And warmth." He cocked his head at her quizzically, visibly astounded by her brazen attitude. She remained resolute, glowering up at him.

Finally his eyes crinkled with a smile. "Whatever you command, my dear." His voice lilted gently and with a quick nod of his head, he ushered her back into the hallway. They walked back to his room in silence. The cold clung viciously to her cheek but Susan couldn't feel a thing. She was suddenly inflated with a tumultuous joy. To be reunited with her father…surely it must have been a dream…

No, _he _was here, settling across from her at the table. The dull yellow bulb of a nearby lamp threw light on the constellation of silver scars on his chest and Susan studied them idly, waiting for him to explain.

"Your father has played an integral part in our operation, Susan," he murmured and reached under his chair to retrieve another jug of water. He slid it across the table to her and she took it, eyeing him warily. "He, like you, was hired for his expertise – in nuclear physics."

She sighed inwardly, shaking her head. It must run in the family to dapple in dangerous fields of study that got you involved with the wrong sort of people. As she took a long swig of water, he continued.

"His work with a certain nuclear fusion reactor came to our attention - "

"Our?" she repeated, swallowing hard.

Bane paused and a strange mercurial light flickered in his eyes, as if something had suddenly leaped across the gray span of his mind. "Yes – my associates and I."

"So you're not the ringleader?" she inquired boldly, leaning back in her seat to study him.

His gaze narrowed menacingly. "We are straying from the subject."

She sighed and bent to retrieve the blanket from the floor. "Do continue."

"Once he learned that we knew of his work and its more destructive possibilities, he went into hiding to protect the world from his own knowledge and to protect his family," his gaze softened, "A noble man, your father. Very brave…"

Susan realized then that Bane had been the cause of so much of her misery from before they had even met. He and his _associates _had forced her father into hiding, had stolen him from his loved ones. Facing him now, however, she couldn't be furious for he had also reunited them…there was a catch, a trap, waiting somewhere, and she would be careful to watch her step even for her happiness…

"When the CIA came searching for him, we saw it as a sign. A free ticket to Gotham and the impetus for our operation. Wayne Enterprises, who had at first enlisted his work on the fusion reactor, could not be made aware of his return however. So we had to have him 'killed', in theory. When we established base down here in the sewer system, so did he."

To think how many times she had walked the streets without knowing what lay just below the surface…her mouth felt uncomfortably dry and she took another long gulp of water.

"Your father hasn't seen the light of day in many months," he said solemnly and assured her with a low nod. "But today is his redemption." The metal of the chair whined as he stood.

"What?" Susan started, peering up at him blankly. "You're letting him go?"

"No, my dear," he explained, "We have an outing ahead of us. An occasion to meet."

Her face tightened in confusion. _We_. What was this _we _business?

"You are coming, of course" he stated as if reading her mind and moved to a set of industrial crates that sat stacked beside his bed. She watched as he retrieved a plain pair of black pants, a t-shirt to match his, a jacket, and a simple pair of boots. He set them on the bed and turned back to her. "Dress quickly. We are on a tight schedule."

An incredulous laugh rolled out from the pit of her stomach. "If you really think I'll accompany you _anywhere, _you - "

He was beside her in a second, towering over her, his large hand resting heavily on her shoulder. She tensed. "Do listen carefully, Susan" he murmured and the cold muscle of his touch convinced to do as he commanded, "You will do as I ask – whatever I ask – if you want your father to live. I will not kill you, dear, but your father's necessity has nearly run its course. Do we understand each other?"

She felt her face grow warm with fear and loathing. Fear for her father. She wouldn't let Bane take him from her…_whatever I ask_. She nodded stiffly, fiercely biting her lip for her anger.

"Good," he cooed and removed his hand. She sprang from her seat and moved for the clothes on the bed. She glanced over her shoulder to glare at him but it was no use. His back was already turned, giving her all the privacy she could afford. Shedding her tattered sun dress, sullied with blood and dirty and dust, she stepped lithely into the clothes Bane had offered. They were comfortable, women's clothes…_associates _was right.

She didn't allow herself to linger on the clothes, focusing on the more pressing questions. "Where are we going?" She briskly braided her dirty hair and tied it off with a torn scrap of her old dress.

"The Gotham City Rogues are playing this afternoon," he hissed blithely, turning around to retrieve his massive jacket from nearby. "It's sure to be a good game."

Susan blinked. "You're kidding."

"No, Ms. Isley, never," he replied and hooked his hands in the front of his flak vest. She saw it was still speckled with her blood. But it could have been anyone else's… "But first," she felt the arm around her shoulder and was floating from the room, her feet moving mechanically beneath her, "Wayne Enterprises."


	9. Chapter 9

Susan could see why Daggett – oh how he seemed so far away now; she wondered idly what had become of him – had regarded Wayne as his one and only competitor. Wayne Enterprises was more than impressive. The tower of blue glass and steel rose gracefully in the center of Gotham and the uppermost floor, set with wide polished windows, allowed for a brilliant view of the entire city. Susan admired it now, smiling in the sunlight. Her pale skin opened to the warm glow; the sensation was nearly orgasmic.

She paid little mind to the audience gathered in the elegant conference room. The board members. Two of them were missing, however, as Bane and his company had been informed. One Lucius Fox and one Miranda Tate. So they waited and she had strayed to the windows, hopeful for a bit of energy. The botanical part of her, the part she believed that had kept her alive down there in the dark, was hungry for the light. She was needless to say happy to be out and about. Even if it was on Bane's leash.

The sound of voices reached her ears and she turned to see that the absentee board members had arrived, their cheeks still flushed from the chill outside. They happened upon the startling scene and froze; they saw Bane and Bane saw them, addressing them with a civil air.

"How good of you to join us. Chair. President." His hands were fixed at his lapels again, she noted. A power play, a show of easy confidence. "All I need now is one ordinary board member…Mr. Fox, would you like to nominate?"

Susan did not leave her place by the window, but glanced over her shoulder at the trustees. She smiled at the older gentleman's bow tie before locking eyes with the woman. They regarded each other for a moment and Susan thought she saw something more than shock in her pretty green eyes. A sort of vague hostility…But the light flickered away when another board member, an elderly well-dressed fellow, volunteered himself for Bane's pet cause.

Bane headed back towards the elevators, leading the parade of armed men with whom we arrived, ignoring Mr. Fox's objections. Susan was hesitant to leave the sunshine, but followed after them, falling to the back of the group. An elevator was called and they shuffled in, the henchmen prodding the new captives with the noses of their guns. The ride down to the basement was unspeakably tense.

Underground again. Susan missed the sunlight already. They walked into a long open space with a low ceiling, lit with row upon row of fluorescent tubes. On the other end of the room were more of Bane's men, waiting. Susan caught sight of her father, sitting abjectly on a metal rack, removed from the group and surrounded by more goons. Her pace quickened as she moved toward him but a deafening blast of dynamite drew her attention across the room. The men had blown straight through the wall. She watched as Bane climbed easily over the rubble and passed out of sight.

Her father was wrenched to his feet and shoved forward and she was nudged gently in the ribs by a passerby. Lucius Fox.

"Best to keep moving," he murmured and she tried to smile for his sake as she followed after them. She was as much a captive as he was.

The room was a bunker, striped with light that streamed in from above ground. A shallow gully of murky water ran along the floor and in the middle of the room – the most majestic piece of scientific technology Susan had ever seen. A frame of iron and steel reached to the far corners of the room, holding at its center a perfectly round hunk of machinery. From what she could recall from half-forgotten pages of scientific journals, it looked like a nuclear reactor, or the core of one. But the last time she'd even heard of such technology was –

Recognition hit her so suddenly she nearly faltered in her steps. _This _was her father's work. What he had so long labored for, a profound achievement in nuclear physics, a project he had started in good will…at Bane's complete disposal. She watched as he mounted a small platform and began tinkering with a touchpad. A few lights flickered on.

"Turn it on," he growled, fixing Fox with a hard look.

Fox simply refused. To that, Bane motioned to one of his many gun men who forced his weapon on Fox's associate, the older trustee.

"I only need one other board member. There are eight more waiting upstairs," he gestured with his finger for emphasis.

"I won't do it." Still Fox refused. Susan had to admire his bravery. The click of a trigger. Brave, but stupid.

"Alright, stop." The woman spoke up suddenly, her voice tinged with an unexpected accent, her tone pleading and quiet. "Lucius, you'll kill this man and yourself and barely slow them down," she murmured as she stepped with a dainty sureness onto the platform where Bane stood and placed her hand on the keypad. The scanner whined lowly.

Fox reluctantly followed. His mouth was a grim line as he placed his hand on the keyboard. The other board member was next. The core began to glow with a cool blue light. Susan saw her father's face illuminated; through the blood and the dirt she could see his fascination, the wonder that they both felt as they watched the machine come to life.

"Do your work," Bane commanded and gestured to the machine. Her father shrugged out of his already sullied jacket and glanced miserably at Bane as he rolled up his sleeves. His first steps toward the reactor were tentative.

"Take them to the surface." The men, guns ready, began to herd the hostages back toward the previous room. "People of their status deserve to witness the next era of western civilization." As they left, Miranda Tate threw one final glance over her shoulder at the masked man. Those green eyes lingered on Susan for a moment more…a strange enmity in those wary eyes…and then she was gone.

"Come, Susan." His voice crept up her spine and echoed off the water and the stone of the bunker walls. "Don't you want to see the culmination of your father's work?"

She walked thoughtfully toward the platform, folding her arms tightly across her chest. "The next era of western civilization?" Bane hardly acknowledged her, his attention drawn by the reactor. There was a curious light in his eye, but not the familiar kind she'd seen before; his fists, hanging down by his sides, kept clenching and unclenching. He was visibly excited. She grew nervous with such abruptness that she was almost sick to her stomach.

Something was so _wrong. _She could feel it, _smell_ it in the air almost. Destruction, with an imminence that frightened her. She had never felt that way before…she'd never felt anything so strongly and with more certainty in her life.

"You're going to kill us all, aren't you?" The question drew his gaze away from the core; the answer was fixed plainly in his eyes.

"I always knew you were quick, my dear" he mused and brushed past her to perch on one of the steps of the platform. "We could use more minds like yours in our ranks."

"I am not one of your men," she spat and he chuckled.

"I know – I am thankful."

"And I never will be," she insisted, sneering down at him. He only smiled, that dangerous light playing in his eyes. Her very blood was on edge and her nerves only worsened when at last her father stepped away from the core and gave his verdict.

"It's done. This is now a four-megaton nuclear bomb."

Susan's breath caught in her throat and she exchanged a grave look with her father as she lessened the space between them. By her father's side, she took in the magnitude of the core, glowing radiantly and humming with life. It seemed less beautiful now that she knew what it was…

"Pull the core out of the reactor," Bane ordered, gesturing to some of his men.

Her father gave a start, horrified. "You can't! This is the only power source capable of sustaining it – if you move it, the core will decay in a matter of months."

"Five, by my calculations," he replied easily and his mask gave a sinister hiss.

"But then it will go off!" Her father's protests were weak and he was shuddering. She took his arm in hers to stop the shakes and was careful not to harm him.

Bane stood proudly and descended from the platform. "For the sake of your family, Dr. Pavel," his eyes flashed as he locked eyes with Susan, "I do hope so."

And they watched, frozen with furious fear, as the bevy armed men began to disconnect the core.

When they were mobile once more, the wind tearing mercilessly through her hair, Susan tried to steady her heart. She pressed her face to the hard leather of Bane's back, seeking shelter from the chill, and breathed in low, steady repetitions. In and out. She closed her eyes and tried to imitate the slow, calm breathing of the man at the head of the bike.

But she couldn't. Her mind was racing along with the road. The danger was so imminent she could taste it in the back of her mouth. Iron. The bomb trailed after them, stored in the hull of a massive freight truck. She felt herself humming with anxious energy, fear for her father, expectant, uneasy…They arrived at the stadium by a back entrance and descended once more. Susan could hear the roar of a boisterous crowd and every now and then catch a yellow flash of a home team jersey.

What the hell were they doing here?

Bane led the pack and his men followed obediently, rolling the bomb on a large metal trolley. Its wheels whistled quietly on the stone floor. Susan fell back and away from Bane to walk beside her father. He didn't notice her absence and strode on.

She almost didn't know what to say. Her mouth was dry and her head with spinning. "What are they going to do?" She hesitated over the word "dad"; it didn't feel right.

His broken face gave a grimace. "I know as much as you do, Susan." He looked over his shoulder at the bomb and then at her. "How did you end up with these men? With the masked man?"

"The same way you did," she replied, "I know too much now and he won't let me go." She watched the massive shoulders of the man at the front and narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "He won't kill me though…"

"Count your blessings," he murmured gravely and gave a hard shudder.

_A blessing indeed,_ she sneered but kept her venom at bay. "I'll keep you safe."

He peered into her face and his eyes were desolate and empty and furious. "With what? The word of a terrorist?"

Her jaw slackened, taken aback by his sudden contempt and was about to reassure him further when their procession came to a halt. They had reached the entrance to the field. Susan squinted out into the arena at the sea of bright yellow, quiet with reverence and became suddenly aware of the voice ringing through the stadium. A child, nervously, reciting the national anthem.

"What a lovely, lovely voice," Bane observed, his hands folded politely in front of him. He beckoned to her and she reluctantly resumed her place at his side. "When I signal, you will demolish the field." She stared at him and when she did not confirm his command, his gaze swiveled to meet hers, all at once calm and threatening. "Or on my word, I will kill him myself."

Her mouth ran dry. "I don't have the strength to - "

"You will find the strength."

They stared at one another for a moment more before she turned away, approaching the mouth of the passageway so she could stand in the sunlight. She rubbed her hands together, breathing deeply, surely. The anthem was reaching its climax.

"Dr. Pavel," Bane chided, "Your daughter has witnessed your good work. Come see what she is capable of….let the games begin."

She glanced over her shoulder, received the signal and raised her hands to the light. A whistle sounded somewhere and the crowd began its riotous chorus of applause and cheers. She closed her eyes.

Something moved within her. An ancient energy resounding at last and she felt the strength of the earth around her, echoing up from its very core. The ground began to rumble and she braced herself, her hands still held aloft as though she were performing some sort of religious ceremony. A benediction of nature. A force of nature.

_Mother nature. _

She hardly heard the screams of horror and the thundering of the field as it crumbled fantastically, bowing to her will. When at last she opened her eyes, her knees were shaking with the force of her power and she could feel Bane's hand on her shoulder. She let him guide her forward, into the light of the arena and its ruins, at once horrified and excited by the destruction she had caused.

The air was trembling with the shrill sound of terror and panic. She stepped idly over the body of a referee and Bane stooped to retrieve the man's headpiece. He held the mike to the mouth of his mask as he strode further into the arena and raised his hand to the frightened masses.

"Gotham, take control…take control of your city!" A hush fell over the crowd as they waited, watched as the men rolled the bomb out onto the field. Susan scanned the crowd, looking past the frightened faces to see that Bane's men had infiltrated the stands; they were running the show now. "This," Bane began with a grand gesture to the core, "Is the instrument of your liberation!"

Glancing around, Susan caught sight of herself on the jumbo-tron screen on the other end of the stadium. She crossed her arms over her chest defensively and looked away. Shoving past her, a pair of goons took hold of her father and pushed him forward. He fell to his knees in front of Bane who he regarded with a look of apprehension and loathing.

"Identify yourself to the world." Bane held the microphone to his lips.

Her father hesitated, quickly glancing at her. "Dr. Leonid Pavel…nuclear physicist."

"And what…what is this?" Bane inquired and shook his hand at the bomb, his voice brimming with playful curiosity..

Another moment's hesitation. "It's – a fully primed neutron bomb. With a blast radius of six miles."

"And who is capable of disarming such a device?"

The hushed arena waited anxiously for his answer. He gave a small shake of his head. "Only me."

"Only you," Bane repeated thoughtfully, mimicking the gesture. "Thank you, good doctor." And with a movement so sudden, so visceral, he reached around and broke his neck. The sound of it echoed out across the field, along with the screams of a few onlookers, and the man fell in a crumpled heap at Bane's feet.

Susan was too horrified to scream. She felt the force of it tear through her, felt her face grow hot with blood and fury, felt her knees go weak with shock. She saw the ground come up around her but was caught suddenly by a pair of rough arms. One of the armed men. She fought against him, kicking wildly, wanting badly to go to her father. Dead. The tears were warm and heavy on her cold face and she couldn't see anything for the red in her eyes. Bane was talking. She didn't care, she didn't care. He was a murderer and a liar and she wanted nothing more than to hurt him, to have the ground rise up and swallow him. But the man supporting her had bound her hands as if he knew her intentions and he held her fast as she shook against him, sobbing dryly.

At last, the shriek of a microphone as Bane tossed the head piece over his shoulder. It landed with a thud on her father's still chest. She lost it then and the scream reached its culmination at last. She tore out of the man's grasp and stumbled toward her father, fresh tears falling freely from her eyes. Within feet of the body she was stopped once more, staggering into Bane's hard, solid figure. He would not let her pass even as she tore at him.

"Do not make a scene, Susan" he chided gently and winding a strong arm around her waist, practically hauled her from the field. "We leave with dignity." She caught sight of herself on the screen once more. Her cheeks stained grey with tears, her hair a dizzy mess, sticking in large strands to her red and swollen face. She looked wild; she felt wild.

And they were in the dark again. Her feet shuffled beneath her and her head reeled miserably as she moved through the shadow, Bane's hand on the back of her neck and chaos erupting in the arena above them. Her mouth was a thin hard line. The tears had stopped but her chest continued to heave with muted sobs. The bikes were where they left them and she closed her eyes as they began their parade through the city streets.

She was quiet.

But everything was burning inside; roiling with a hideous, irrepressible fury that did not manifest itself until they at last descended once more into the sewers. She was still shaking with the shock when Bane led her into his quarters.

"Do not cry, my dear" he cooed with a gentle pat on her back as he moved past her. He shrugged easily out of his coat and went to the hearth to rekindle the fire. "Your father's death will not go unnoted. He died for a noble cause. A higher purpose."

At his words, suddenly, something snapped and reckless impulse took hold, sent her flying across the room. With an almost inhuman agility, she launched herself onto the table and pushed off to gain leverage, bringing her knees into Bane's back. He lurched forward from the unexpected attack and nearly had her in his grasp once more when he faltered, his eyes widening in panic as a low mechanical hissing filled the room.

Susan had successfully undone his mask. Her fingers moved almost by memory, exactly as she had seen him do, and the clasps fell apart neatly in her hands. She took advantage of his surprise, quickly slipping off the mask, and stumbled away and out of his grasp; she watched as the pain descended swiftly on the man before her, the agony that was his sovereign, that ruled his life.

He couldn't move for the pain; he remained on his knees, his back to her, perfectly still save for the tremors now racking his body. She saw his shoulders rise and fall with violent shuddering gasps and the gleaming beads of sweat begin to gather at his now-bare temples. His anguish shook the air; it was palpable.

Susan watched, unflinching, the mask dangling in her left hand, her heart hammering away in her chest. Perhaps now he would be able to feel half the agony he had exacted upon her. She wondered if long-tern exposure to the pain would kill him; she wanted to find out…And then –

"_Susan_…"

It was so quiet she nearly missed it for the blood thrumming loudly in her ears. A voice, _his _voice. A sound so sorrowful it softened the hard contempt in her eyes. Without the mask he was a man, she could see now, a miserable creature. As miserable as she was…she could run. She could run away now with the mask and leave him for dead. The thought thrilled her, moved her to a cruel overwhelming joy and yet –

She moved forward with certainty, her hand held out before her. She felt that same stirring, of power awakening within her. Except now, she did not wield it to destroy. His skin was smooth and warm with perspiration beneath her fingers and she felt him flinch. But then his breathing slowed and the shuddering stopped as she willed the power in her touch to heal him, to numb his pain.

"Do you feel that?" she asked, her voice a hateful whisper, "I can take your pain away – and just as easily poison you with it. You _need _me. Don't forget that." She tossed his mask and it landed with a mechanical clunk some feet away. She was already out of the room when she heard him move for it and she was gone before she heard him take his first rapturous wheezing breath.

0000

She was still running when she reached the surface, the cold air washing over her in an awesome wave. Still trembling with her own potent energy and the miracle of her escape, at last, she moved the lid of the manhole back into place and glancing around at her unfamiliar surroundings, began down the alleyway in which she now found herself.

Luck was on her side. She'd found the sewers and its passages to be incredibly deserted; the men were "elsewhere" once more. No doubt out in the streets of Gotham, heralding Bane's liberation. Susan had given it little thought and focused on the freedom she had now attained.

A mass of grey clouds had moved over the sun and the light was white and nearly blinding. It hurt her eyes but she was thankful for it nonetheless. Thankful at last to be out of the darkness. The chill clung to her skin as she rounded a corner and spilled out into the street. Glancing quickly at the signs hanging above the nearest intersection, she attempted to estimate her location. Her thoughts were crashing about mercilessly in her head. She needed clarity and she need to collect herself, to find shelter. She couldn't go back home…anywhere was better…

Susan picked up momentum as she crossed the street, peering over her shoulder every other moment; she was sure she'd see Bane barreling after her but she didn't. It was then she noticed how quiet the streets were. If there were any cars they rolled by in solemn silence; windows were dark, cafes were closed, and the sidewalks were barren. Across the street there was a small group of people, men, huddled outside of an empty bar, the smoke from their cigarettes rising in great gray plumes into the chilly breeze.

One of them perked up hearing her pass and they locked eyes; she regarded him with a silent indifference but he continued to stare as she moved away. She had crossed two blocks before she noticed the group was following her and she listened intently to their whispers.

"Is it her?"

"I'm sure of it."

"Then get her!"

She took off running then and they followed, tailing her even as she tried to lose them. _Stupid! _She screamed at herself. Of course…when Bane had made his debut so had she. He had made it impossible for her now, to roam alone. She was just as villainous as he was in the panicked eyes of the public. She dodged around a corner and shimmied into a close alleyway, knocking over a few trashcans in the process, and found herself at a dead end. She cursed quietly, hearing the men behind her, and looked wildly about. She spotted a manhole some feet away and deliriously considered moving back into the sewers…

No.

She would fight. She steeled herself so when she felt an arm snake around her neck she was filled with an unshakeable resolve.

"You look awfully familiar, lady." The man's breath was hot against her cheek. The other men came into view. A motley crew of five.

"Yeah," another chimed in, "You look a lot like that lady we saw at the game this afternoon. The one on the big screen."

"With the _terrorist_." The word hung like a curse in the air.

One of them stepped closer and peered into her face with an ugly leer. "Are you with Bane?"  
She smiled for the pain in her neck. "Don't be silly, darling. I'm right here with you boys." The grip tightened and she gagged.

"No funny business," came the voice in her ear and the other men nodded, grunted in agreement.

"Do you know where the bomb is?" the man before her asked again.

Her eyes flashed. "Let's say that I do…"

"You'll lead us to it," he snarled, glancing around at his buddies, "We'll nip this terrorist's plans in the bud." His pals gave a low triumphant cheer and Susan had to keep herself from rolling her eyes.

"Release me then won't you?" she murmured, pouting slightly, "I'm no use to you all tied up like this."

"I beg to differ," cooed the voice in her ear and the men laughed. Her stomach turned with disgust but the arm released her nonetheless. "No funny business," he repeated darkly, jabbing her in the shoulder as she stepped away from him.

"You have nothing to worry about," she lied and deftly rubbed her palms together, readying her seeds and her spores for action, "In fact, I think what you boys are doing," she shook them out and around her and felt herself quiver with vicious energy, "is very heroic."

"Hey – what is that?" One of them called but his voice was swallowed by the sounds of the concrete cracking beneath their feet, giving forth the flora she had sprinkled there. She felt strong for the first time in weeks as the vines grew up around her, weaving around her body, curling around her arm, waiting, ready…

There was a beat. And with a flick of her wrist, she unleashed her fury. The first vine shot out and caught one of them by the ankle and lifted him gracefully; a fierce shake or two and he hit the stone wall of the alley with a sick thud. She reared back as one of them advanced forward to strike her and dodged his blow, simultaneously taking another by the neck. She felt it snap under the strength of her vine and tossed him aside.

The man lurched forward once more to strike her and she caught him by the wrist, bending it with unknown force. "Hit a woman? I don't think so," she cooed and pressed her lips to his. His eyes widened in shock and then rolled back in his head. She threw him into his friends and they stumbled back.

The remaining two looked down at their friend with horror as he began to convulse, foam spilling from his mouth and his lips beginning to swell with angry red blisters.

"What are you?" one of them stuttered, turning green as he stared at her.

Her brow quirked coolly; a vine curled tenderly on her cheek.

"She's history," the other snarled and produced a gun from beneath his jacket. A vine shot out to retrieve it but fell to ash as he fired at it. Susan's fury returned and she flicked her wrist once more; a flurry of vines branched out and managed to lay claim to the pistol and throttle the man but not before he fired once more.

The air was still ripe with the smell of leaves and gunpowder and when the blue smoke cleared, Susan saw that the last man, the sickly one, had run away. Her disappointment was only distracted by the smoldering hole in her jacket and the blood quickly seeping from it. She remembered Stryver and his gun suddenly, absurdly, but this wound drew no comparison; the pain barely registered. But the blood was making a mess of her boots.

"Shit," she cursed and one of the vines came to her aid, wrapping itself tightly around her arm, just above the wound, to act as a tourniquet. She smiled down at it lovingly and breathed a sigh of relief as she felt them curl affectionately in her hair. For once, standing in the midst of her own destruction, even for her wound, she felt at peace…

"Susan, I'm impressed."

The harmony vanished. She closed her eyes and wished hopelessly that she'd just imagined the voice behind her. How did he _do_ that – sneak up on her so easily? She turned slowly, the calm smile falling away from her face.

Bane had recovered and stood before with his characteristic grandeur. The lid to the manhole had been pushed aside at his feet and she idly wondered _why_ she hadn't heard it move.

"How many were there?" he asked politely, observing the blood on the walls.

"Five," she replied shortly, fixing him a look of reproach.

He was silent for a moment, glancing about. "I only count four."

She rolled her eyes. "One of them ran off."

He clucked at her disapprovingly. "Can't have that, dear. No loose ends, no witnesses."

She yielded to a cruel smile as it melted across her lips. "You seem to have difficulty following your own rules."

He moved toward her then but she didn't flinch. Her blood was still humming from her last kill and she could feel the sweet and perilous power return to her, coursing throw her veins, her vines…She had asserted her strength and she made sure that he recognized it.

"Have you come to kiss and make up?" she asked sweetly, turning about to face him. He drew pause as one of her vines snaked past his feet and looked at her over his mask; his eyes were wary, even for the playful light, and they betrayed his caution.

"You're hurt," he stated plainly, nodding at her arm and distracting from her question. She shrugged as he peered down at her. "Come. I will treat the wound. Return the favor." He turned and made his way over to the manhole, slowly vanishing as he moved down the ladder.

She hesitated for a moment after he was gone and glanced back down the alley and toward the street beyond. The clouds had rolled away from the sun and the light shone eerily on the violent scene around her. A crime scene. She knew she had no choice but to follow him. Bane had ruined her by association and now…now she had murdered four men and had left a witness to her crimes.

An unfortunate impasse.

With a sigh, she turned away from her freedom and tried to savor the last remaining rays of sunlight as she descended once more into the sewers, rolling the lid of the manhole in place and throwing herself into darkness.


	10. Chapter 10

"This changes nothing, you know."

His hands were gentle, carefully rolling the jacket from her shoulders, peeling the shirt from her body almost tenderly. She didn't bother to feel embarrassed by the sudden exposure and glared at him squarely, her mouth curled into a bitter frown

"You're still a liar and a murderer and - "

"I kill one man," he began, rising to retrieve a crateful of commonplace medical supplies, "For a much higher purpose. And that makes me a murderer? While you lay waste to four men because…"

"They were following me," she replied hotly but her impatience faltered. The reason sounded more pathetic when she said it aloud.

"So what does that make you, my dear?" He stared at her intently, the automated air of his mask brushing softly against her skin; he only glanced away to wet a small cotton swab with antiseptic.

_A monster, _she mused gravely and stared down at her boots and the blood speckled on the leather, shining dully in the light. She stiffened as he drew closer, inches away now, and began to disinfect her injury. He wiped away most of the blood and she could see the wound now: the torn charred skin, the pink of muscles shining beneath it. Her vine still hadn't retreated and kept a firm hold of her arm, keeping the bleeding at bay.

Tossing the swab aside, Bane set to work. The small metal tools looked absurd in his large hands but Susan's hilarity was replaced with an unfamiliar painful sensation as he dug into her to retrieve the bullet. She hissed lowly, her fingers digging into the wood of the table beneath her, and she squirmed for the pain.

"Do keep still, Susan," Bane instructed, placing a firm hand on her hip. She stilled, shocked by the sudden intimacy of his touch, but he began again and so did the pain. She had to remind herself to breathe and her short shallow gasps filled the quiet space between them until at last, to distract herself, she struck up conversation.

"Tell me," she murmured, wincing sharply, "What is this higher purpose?"

"Beyond your comprehension," he replied shortly, not glancing up from his work.

"You insult my intelligence," she said and he chuckled gently, "I saw the bomb and your intentions are only obvious."  
"Then what is the question?"

"_Why_?"

He drew pause here, his tools poised gracefully over her arm, as if he were searching for the right words; the most concise response. "This city has deluded itself with thoughts of peace and resolution. But a city so steeped in corruption is beyond saving. Gotham must perish in order for true reconciliation to be achieved. I am fulfilling the legacy of those who have come before me – I am Gotham's reckoning, here to restore balance."

The pain in her arm was a distant throbbing as she considered his words. They sounded as if they'd been rehearsed hundreds of times – and almost as if they weren't his…

"You're going to destroy the lives of millions of innocent people?" Her voice bent under the weight of the question..  
"Innocent is a very strong word," he responded, his eyes glinting balefully, digging into her arm once more with unnecessary force.

"Shit!" she hissed and wrenched her arm away from him, splattering the table with red. "Not so hard, _my dear_ – I need that arm."

"I would venture that you need very little," he observed, "Your power transcends physicality. Wouldn't you agree?"

She relaxed enough for him to take hold of her arm once more and closed her eyes to steady her breathing. "I would. I survived you, didn't I?" she murmured, gritting her teeth against the pain.

"Did you?"

Her eyes snapped open and she looked at him as he worked. The room was quiet save for her soft shallow breathing and the low hiss of his mask and the delicate metallic clink of his tools. _Had she?_ She wasn't sure anymore. She wasn't sure of anything…except for her newfound strength. That was the only certainty, her only resolution. Susan Isley, the grey, distant woman, was dead – _she _hadn't survived the solitude. But this monstrous power, the force of nature within her, creative, destructive, unknown…had become her.

So she had survived; she'd survived because she had adapted and allowed nature to have its way. And she would continue to do so.

"Aha," said Bane suddenly, drawing her out of her thoughts, "Have a look, Susan." There, held in between the tiny silver pincers of his metal tongs, was a small round ball of lead, slick with blood. She stared at it for a moment before he dropped it into a round sterile dish and placed it aside. He next produced a roll of downy white gauze and went about bandaging her arm.

"Excuse me," he whispered , tapping politely on the vine coiled around her arm. A small smile swept onto her face and she willed the tendril to retreat so he could do his work. After some minutes of mildly tense silence, when he was finished, she gave a small nod of appreciation and had just begun to move from her perch on the table when she felt his hand on her hip.

"Now, now" he chided, gently pushing her back onto the table as he stood from his seat, "We're not finished here."

She stared at him, frozen; the place where his hand was burning under his touch. "No?" she asked softly.

"The dynamic has changed," he announced, a tone of grandeur lilting in his voice, "You are no longer my prisoner."

Susan blinked. "I don't understand. I've done everything to warrant more…consequences." She nearly cursed herself aloud for even suggesting it.

"But my dear!" he exclaimed and his eyes brimmed with that curious, exciting light, "You have proven yourself to me not as a prisoner but as an _ally_."

Her expression darkened. "I told you already. I'm not one of - "

"I'm afraid you have very little choice in the matter. A woman in your position, a _wanted_ woman, in a city full of stupid, frightened people: it would be wise to side with the man holding all the cards – and the detonators."

He was right. Of course, he was right. But still she seethed. "If you think," she began, her lip curling hideously, "That you can manipulate me for your abominable cause, you're sorely mistaken."

Leaning closer, he peered into her face, eyes flashing dangerously. Susan felt his hand slacken at her hip only to reach up and run tenderly through her hair; his fingers traced gently across her scalp, relishing the feel of it even…she wouldn't flinch, continuing to glare up at him.

"I won't have to," he growled and heaved a low sigh as he straightened to his full height. "For now, Susan, you must rest. Despite your inhuman capacities, a wound such as yours requires time to heal. Sleep here," he gestured to his bed, which was tucked into a corner of the room. It was impeccably made. "You will not be disturbed."  
She pushed past him gracefully, grabbing up her bloodied shirt and slipping into it as she went to the bed. Sitting neatly on the edge, she mechanically untied the laces of her boots. "I don't trust you," she said, suddenly, simply.

"That's alright, Susan" he replied, the edge of a laugh in his voice as he turned for the door, "Thing's change. You know that, don't you?"

She opened her mouth to respond with another scathing remark but he was gone. She sat, watching the door for a few minutes, anxious that he might return, and considered leaving again; she was no longer a prisoner as he said. But when she tried to flex her arm, she could manage little movement and a good deal of pain.

And so, resigning to rest, she lay down. The bedclothes smelt like him. Sweat. Blood. Iron. She slept, fitfully, and dreamt that the world was falling apart around her. As Bane promised, she was not disturbed.

0000

_Curious. Very curious_.

Bane made his rounds, ambling leisurely through the levels of the sewer system, boots thumping pleasantly on the metal catwalks and enjoying the mist of the waterfall; his mind was working slowly over the last few hours.

Susan had done the impossible. An action so simple and treacherous that it would have meant certain death for anyone else, anyone but _her_: she had removed his mask. The sheer surprise he had felt at her brazen action had shocked him beyond action and he, _he _had submitted to the agony. And oh, he felt it still. Wallowing behind his eyes, in the hollows of his bones, his joints, his muscles, his blood, his breath…and then she had touched him.

It had been blissful, despite her malicious intentions. The same delirious pink high that he had first experienced with the drugs she had produced. He had almost crippled under the pain but her touched nearly brought him to tears – a fact that disturbed him almost as much as it fascinated him. Susan continued to amaze.

Because despite his punishments, his torture, both physical and psychological, his will to bend her soul, she would not bow. She would not submit to him. She continued to fight for a reason that escaped him. She had lost everything. Her father, her freedom, her _life_ and yet…

What was the secret to the redemption that came so easily to her? Or was she beyond redemption? This new, curious creature that had swallowed the calm, impassive Susan Isley in so much flame and violence and fervor; a brilliant, _dangerous _creature. Try as he might he couldn't help but be impressed by the destruction she could cause with _a simple flick of her wrist_. That sort of power it had taken him years to hone and master. His mild envy was eclipsed only by his fascination. He had not seen such a will to survive in anyone, save for Talia. The thought of her made him ache in a way very different from the physical agony that lay dormant in his bones. He closed his eyes to the pang in his chest and forced it away, straightening as he passed across yet another catwalk that led directly to his quarters. He paused in the doorway and peered in at the woman asleep in his bed.

It was strange, almost unsettling, to see a woman there not of tawny skin and dark hair, but of pale flesh and flaming red hair; it was not her place but Bane had offered it to her and although she had reclined sulkily, she seemed to have fallen quite gently into a deep sleep. He watched her turn once or twice, twisting the sheets tightly in her grasp and pulling them up around her shoulder; she flinched for the pain in her arm but did not stir otherwise. Her face was vulnerable to the light and her expression was a discomforted one; her low brown knit tightly, her lips turned down in a frown. He wondered what she was dreaming about…

Submission or not, she would need to learn discipline, to learn how to navigate this power and he would teach her. The repression and control she had long cherished were gone now and her recklessness would endanger his cause. _Their _cause. Bane, of course, had meant what he said about aligning her with his cause. This, he mused with a small smile, would come _naturally_.

"Who is she, Bane?"

Hervoice, crept up on him so suddenly that he froze, blinking, hoping that it was more than an auditory dream, a cruel side-effect of his pain. And, turning swiftly, he saw her, Talia, standing beside him. He was overtaken by the surprise of her appearance and felt rather lightheaded. He hadn't seen her in so long, months, and her she was, so sudden, so perfect…

"Talia," he breathed, reaching out to touch her warm shoulder. She did not look at him and moved out from under his hand and into the room, her gray eyes locked on the woman in bed. He felt his hope puncture within him and he lowered his gaze from her beautiful face, ashamed at his sudden emotion.

"Her name is Susan," he replied, forcing the acrimony from his voice and fixing his face blankly. "Susan Isley."

Talia glanced over her shoulder at him, her eyes rolling across him scornfully as if something in his tone gave him away. "Did you think I would not see the grand reveal? Did you think I would not find out? Your little secret…"

"She is not my secret," he protested, striding into the room. He couldn't explain why he was suddenly so upset. "I would never conceal anything from you – "

"Did you think I wouldn't be upset?" she began, raising her voice and Bane gestured to the sleeping figure in the corner; Susan gave a sharp twitch of her head but remained, thankfully asleep. "To see you, with another woman at your side, heralding in this revolution," she continued, lowering her voice to a hoarse whisper and glaring at him accusingly, "In my place."

"She is not here to replace you, Talia" he said, almost imploringly and he almost resented her for reducing him to this sort of behavior, "She is…" he searched for the right word and choice one hesitantly, "A distraction, at best."

"A distraction?" Talia's perfectly arched eyebrow quirked wickedly, "Sleeping in your bed…"

A strange furious heat slithered up the back of his neck and he felt himself tense. "I don't think I like what you're insinuating."

"I don't have to insinuate anything. It's all - "

Talia's voice, which had been climbing to a dangerous volume, was silenced when he placed a hand on her shoulder. The weight of it seemed to calm her and she swayed for a minute before stepping into his arms. He sighed heavily, relieved at the closeness of her presence, and enfolded her precious figure into his arms. Her body was warm against, soft from months of inaction, and her hair, her clothes were heavy with the aroma of expensive perfume. This was not the Talia he was used to, but he held her all the same, glad that he could hold her even for a few moments. So when he caught himself staring at Susan from beyond the embrace, at her pale face shining even for the dim light, he glanced away and steadied himself, growing warm with shame.

She stepped out of the embrace too quickly but pulled away to smile up at him, looking almost like a child again. "I'm sorry, old friend. It has just been too long. And we're so close now. The time draws near and everything is pivotal."

He nodded lowly, focusing on the lilting measure of her voice to chase away his feeling of self-reproach. "Yes…and she will make a strong ally."

Talia's smile stiffened every so slightly. "Ally?" she inquired, at least attempting to comprehend.

"She is powerful," he began, taking advantage of her patience, "A potent weapon to wield. She has a capacity to influence…nature. Yes, nature, as strange as it sounds," he insisted, as confusion clouded her pretty face, "She isn't quite human. I don't know how to explain…but she requires discipline, training. She has already proven herself most valuable."

Talia grew quiet, turning away from him towards the bed. She hovered there, staring down at Susan while she slept, her head tilted curiously to the side. The room was silent save for the echo of Susan's soft, measured breaths and the low puttering tick of Talia's watch, tucked out of sight in her sleeve.

_One/one-thousand, two/one-thousand, three/one-thousand_…

"We will see," she said finally. The covers had fallen away from Susan's pale shoulder and Talia reached down, almost kindly, to pull them back into place; the sleeping woman welcomed them placidly and turned away, tumbling farther into darkness.

"Don't let your distraction get the best of you, my friend," she murmured quietly and she was by my side again. She reached up very gently to put her fingers to the mask, gingerly touching the iron tubing; the gesture was so tender it very nearly distracted him from the cruelty of her next few words.

"And when her necessity wanes, kill her. Or I will do it myself." Then, with one final brief caress, she was gone, leaving him in the middle of the room; he realized suddenly that he'd been holding his breath and exhaled slowly. The low, sinister hiss broke the hush of the quiet air. He glanced over to Susan, quickly, to find she was still sound asleep. He watched her warily for a minute or so, almost wishing, absurdly, that she'd awake. But she didn't. Talia's parting words weighed heavily on his mind…and he didn't know how to feel.

An order was an order, yes? But his resolve…

"Sir?"

He stiffened, resenting the intrusion on his thoughts. But he curbed his ire as he turned to address Barsad. "What is it?"

"Your new location has been arranged," he continued, holding himself awkwardly without his gun. "A shipment of food and water supplies are being delivered to the police in _their _new lodging underground. I'll make sure they stop at your new address." A small rare smile crossed his lips. "We're moving up."

It was somewhere between a question and a smug declaration. Bane nodded slowly. "Yes, brother. And the weapons?"

"Bagged and ready to deliver to Blackgate tomorrow morning."

"Very good."

Barsad's gaze wandered past him to settle on the sleeping Susan; he looked almost nervous, as if he had walked in on something unseemly. Bane felt that familiar heat at the nape of his neck.

"And the girl?" he asked quietly.

"Remove her to the new location," he replied and went to meet him in the doorway. Closer now, he could the light clearly in his eyes. It was fear. He smiled meanly. "Don't be afraid, Barsad. The creature sleeps."

His comrade fixed him with a look of mild derision that Bane chose to ignore. "The other men found her mess in the alleyway – before a few other citizens managed to contact the news crews. They've already given her a moniker."

"Which is?"

"Poison. Poison Ivy."

Bane smiled in spite of himself, glancing over at the woman in the corner, lost in a dream and entangled in the fire of her tresses. Barsad was right to be afraid. They all were.

"Fitting. Very fitting."


	11. Chapter 11

Susan awoke in a panic.

The memory was so distant, so weathered with time, enfolded sweetly in the velvet folds of sleep, it was almost a dream – a nightmare. Something she'd used to know but forgotten, but the sensation of fear remained, a residual stain on her mind. The fear she had felt even as a child.

A dark hallway, ice on the windows, milky light spilling out across the wall, muted footsteps. And then the face of a man – but it was hardly a face. It was shrouded with bandages, mummified almost, and the bindings were stained with great blossoms of blood. But the eyes…cold, gray, horrible eyes. And hateful, so hateful…a fury that had always overwhelmed her, forced her up from the depths of sleep to wallow in her own cold sweat

But as Susan lay gasping, the bedclothes pulled taught against her skin, her heart hammering horribly in her chest, she recognized her fear quite simply and laid it gently to rest. But just as her panic subsided, blinking in the distance, it occurred to her then that she didn't know where she was.

Blinking wildly, she glanced around the unfamiliar room. Even in her groggy state, she could see that it was a considerable upgrade from the sewers. Hardwood floors, high windows. Beige. It was remarkably similar to Daggett's apartment in many ways and although that sort of opulence she found nauseating, _anything _was better than the dank darkness of the sewers.

She sat up, licking her lips dryly and pushing the clean linen bedclothes away with her feet. The air in the room was mellow with automated heat and the light at the windows was soft and blue. It was early morning still, wherever she was. Her heart was still strumming in her chest as she curled in on herself, thinking vaguely of the dream. But she was stirred from her thoughts by the sound of heavy footsteps approaching the door on the opposite side of the room.

The warm golden light bleeding in from under the door was disturbed by two shadows coming to a halt. She knew it was Bane before the thought of him even registered; she could almost feel his presence burning from behind the door. The shadows waited for a minute or so, patient, and she could almost imagine him pressing his face to the door, listening…and then they were gone. Susan could relax back into the bed.

They did not return. So she enjoyed her solitude in the early morning hours first by inspecting the room (it was simply but pleasantly furnished and there were clothes in the bureau against the wall) and then by boldly redecorating, musing wickedly to herself that it simply wasn't _green _enough. Flowers for the bedside and the windowsills and vines to drape themselves along the bedposts and the curtain rods. While she had the potential to be terrifying and wrathful, she found more pleasure in the quieter moments such as these when she was given leisure to dapple in her many natural talents. She found the seeds and spores nestled in the skin of her palms were greener now, healthier and more able, and she found the rejuvenation enabled her to elicit vines at a much faster pace; they sprung directly from her palms now. More control. She relished in it and basked in the attention of her self-made flora. They were her only companions now, she observed, the thought coming to her gravely, and her only protection from a world that had spun madly out of her control.

She thought of the shadow at the door. Even for his cruelty and the relentless constraint he imposed, she could not bring herself to hate Bane. Not entirely. Of course, she had cursed him quite ludicrously during her time in captivity but…it was when he at last explained his actions and this sacred _higher purpose _that her opinion of him deftly shifted – it solidified completely when she, unwittingly, overheard a conversation between him and one of his _associates. _She considered the exchange now as she perched on the end of the bed, idly spinning a few white daisies into a haphazard chain.

A woman had come to see him. Susan had never once seen her face, keeping her eyes shut in fear that her consciousness would be discovered, but her voice had struck a chord of familiarity; whatever recognition she had grasped for had been lost however when the subject of their conversation fell plainly on her supposedly sleeping shoulders.

The woman had been angry with Bane for her presence and had insinuated all sorts of situations that made Susan regret accepting his offer to sleep in his bed. But the way that he had bowed so reverently to her petty anger and strove so beseechingly to assuage her obvious jealousy…she had quickly understood that the conversation she was listening to was an intimate one, a realization that unsettled her stomach and made her wish desperately for the ignorance of sleep. Whoever the woman was she had power over Bane and the fact had only been reinforced by her imparting words: an order for her execution, stated with an arrogance and certainty that it would carried out effectively.

The command had stilled Susan's heart where she lay frozen on the mattress and unnerved her still. Yet – Bane had given no definite answer. And somehow, oddly enough, she put her faith in his silence. He hadn't killed her thus far; in fact, he seemed content to abuse her so long as he could set the wounds himself. Besides, she mused almost triumphantly, her "necessity" as the woman had so quaintly put it had yet to run its course. Bane intended to use her, wield her power for his own glory, and maybe, just maybe, if she could feign submission for a time she could make her escape and –

She faltered suddenly, pausing in her ruminations. Peering down at her hands, she saw that her excitement had made a mess of the delicate daisy chain. She set the sad handful of stem and petal fragments aside with a sigh and had just resolved to produce a couple dozen more adorable white flowers when a distant noise from beyond the door distracted her attention. She climbed from the bed nimbly and padded to the other side of the room. Gripping the doorknob, which shone cheerfully in the sunlight, she found the door to be unlocked and had to stifle her cry of rapturous gratitude as she moved from the room and out into the hall.

The hardwood was chilly beneath her feet and she was thankful at least for the socks, which muted her steps as she crept down the hall checking compulsively over her shoulder; Bane had a keen knack for sneaking up on her. But she found herself quite alone and save for the far-off low purr of a heater, it was eerily quiet and equally dark. She passed a series of rooms on her way, all of them closed, and crossing in front of a mirror she made a mental note to find a much needed shower. She had almost assumed she was as alone as she felt when upon rounding the corner at the mouth of the main hallway she was proved brilliantly wrong and came face to face with the barrel of a gun.

"Don't move," came a fiercely feminine voice, but Susan was not about to comply. She reacted so instinctively she hardly had to will the vines from her hands. There was a sharp, cracking sound and the gun fell to the floor with a clatter. Her attacker gasped but her surprise was swallowed by an angry grunt as Susan made quick work of her restraints, coiling her vines tightly around the woman and lifting her several feet from the ground. Peering up at the stranger, a familiar face loomed into view.

She had only seen her once before down below in the sewers and her person was too excitable to lose to her own delirium. She was Batman's comrade, although the title now seemed dubious to Susan; she had led him to Bane after all.

"So the rumors are true," the woman purred, her eyes wide with fascination and her red lips poised in an expression of awe, "Poison Ivy…"

Her brow quirked curiously. "Pardon me?"

"Oh, you're just the talk about town, don't you know?" she replied languidly, "Just when I thought this city couldn't get any stranger...Would you mind easing up on these vines?"

"I don't mean you any harm - "

"Your thorns say differently."

Susan smiled wryly. "If I set you down, will you promise not to go for your gun? I would really hate to be shot." _Again_, she thought, wincing inwardly as the wound in her arm throbbed hotly; she had awoken to find that, despite a little tenderness, it had healed completely overnight.

The woman considered this for a moment and she watched as her dark eyes glanced furtively at the gun in the corner. "I'd hate to shoot you – but, I'm not sure if I trust someone who's working with Bane."

"I'm not working with him," she protested quietly and her vines gave an involuntary squeeze.

"Honey," the woman wheezed gently, "In this new democracy of his, you're either with him or against him."

It was silent for a moment as they stared at one another. "Please," Susan said at last and the woman, after another minute or so of heavy quiet, complied. The vines retreated and her heels gave a muted click at they touched down once more to the floor and echoed down the hallway as she moved slowly to retrieve her weapon. Susan's nerves settled only when she saw her tuck it back into her belt.

"Selina," the woman introduced herself and offered her gloved hand.

"Susan," she replied, nodding politely and taking the gesture. Another beat of tense silence.

"Where's Bane?" The inquiry was made in unison and elicited a laugh from both women, the tension cracking slightly.

"I haven't a clue," Susan answered, grinning tightly, "I woke up alone. In fact, I have no clue where I am."

"If you must know, you're at city hall. Top floor. Fitted for more domestic needs, it would appear," she explained and led Susan from the corridor and out into the main parlor which was likewise simply furnished and drenched in daylight. Susan felt a mild pang of guilt at letting the morning pass so swiftly but it quickly dissipated when she realized, what fucking schedule had she to follow now?  
"A bit satirical, don't you think?" Selina drawled, striding over to take a seat on the plain couch by the window, "Since Bane's men enacted a take over of the city, he could have his pick of the digs. And since he so kindly sprung me and my inmate friends from prison this morning, I thought I might pay him a visit. Express my gratitude as it were."

Susan stood behind a nearby chair, blinking at the masked woman. "I'm sorry – I have no idea what you're talking about."

Her confidence seemed to blanch and her smirk faltered. "You really don't know?"

Susan shook her head and watched as Selina stood and moved toward the simple television set in the corner, switching it on and retrieving the remote control before reassuming her seat. She flicked to the first news station, threw Susan a look of frustration, and set the remote aside to settle into the couch. "Have a look then."

The picture was busy with headlines, giant blocks of urgent text streaming along the bottom of the screen. _Breakout at Blackgate. _ Footage of Bane, standing a top what looked like a massive stealth tank, was playing and replaying. She watched as he hoisted up a crumbled photograph of the late district attorney, Harvey Dent, Gotham's idol for justice; the picture was swiftly torn to shreds and tossed aside. Bane then produced a few sheets of folded paper and began to speak. Susan caught snippets of his speech between the newscaster commentary.

"Do you accept the resignation of all the liars? Of all the _corrupt_?!" Bane's voice boomed wrathfully through the speakers, magnetic, triumphant. A soft roar came from off screen and Susan could only assume it was the rallied cry of the prisoners of Blackgate, the apostles who had found their new savior.

"We take Gotham from the corrupt!" he continued, raging on, "The rich! The oppressors of generations who've kept you down with the myth of opportunity! And we give it to you…the people!" The camera jostled wildly and there was the echo of a bomb blast as the doors of Blackgate prison were blown to bits. Plumes of black smoke filled the shot and nothing could be seen or heard save for Bane's rumbling voice, hailing revolution.

"Gotham is yours. None shall interfere. Do as you please!"

The scream of hundreds of released prisoners – murderers, thugs, rapists, criminals – and a shower of bullets. The shot fizzled to static and the camera cut off. The screen returned to the tight, worried faces of the news anchors who tried very hard to assume some semblance of calm to convince their viewers. The television shut off with a low click and the two women shared a look of apprehension.

"The man's charismatic I'll give him that," Selina murmured, leaning forward in her seat and resting her elbows on her knees.

"What are the streets like?"

"Absolute chaos. Bane's raised an army of 'revolutionaries'. They're armed, dangerous, and completely unchecked. Last I saw they were ravaging the luxury apartments on ninth street."

She felt herself grow pale. "My mother lives on ninth street."

"If she had any sense she would've relocated," Selina said bitterly but Susan was already gone, moving back down the hall to the bedroom. She was changing her shirt when the woman arrived behind her.

"Damn," she whispered in amazement, taking in the foliage and being careful not to trap a vine beneath one of her serrated heels. "And if you have any sense, you'll stay put. They'll kill you out there," she called, addressing Susan from the doorway.

"I think I'll be fine," she replied fiercely and rummaged in the closet for a jacket. Slipping one on, she pushed past Selina and back out into the hallway. "I'm working _with _Bane, remember? They won't touch me. And if they do – " The vines at Selina's feet gave a violent bristle.

The woman seemed taken aback. "Valid point," she admitted and followed after Susan as she led them both toward the front door in the parlor.

"You won't stay here and wait for Bane?" she asked.

"I have a better chance of finding him out in the streets. Basking in the madness," Selina quipped as they stepped out of the apartment and into a large more executive looking hallway. They found the elevators, called a lift, and began their descent.

There was silence for a minute between them and it was not entirely uncomfortable. Susan decided she liked this fierce woman – even if their initial meeting hadn't been especially friendly. An _ally_, perhaps…?

"Take this," Selina said suddenly, unclipping a small cellular device from her belt and pressing it into her hand, "Things are going to get really hot in this city. If anything should happen – "

"I'm touched," she replied, smiling coyly and Selina rolled her eyes as the doors parted. The quiet of the elevator was overwhelmed with the riotous sound of a mob; screaming, breaking, shouting. The women exchanged a knowing glance and stepped out onto the landing. The racket must have been coming from the main lobby; Susan was curious but not stupid. She followed Selina out through a back door and into a close brick alleyway.

The sun was burning brightly in the middle of a crisp blue sky and she hardly felt the chill for the blood thrumming warmly under her skin. Selina nodded at her one final time and sauntered away, disappearing around the corner. She slipped the phone into her pocket and set out briskly for her own destination, the rebellion inside city hall still ringing in her ears.

She bounded down the streets, her mind turning wildly, estimating her distance from Ninth Street; when she finally arrived, her blood humming in her ears, she found herself in a scene of absolute chaos. People were running madly through the streets, screaming, crying, searching for their own loved ones. Armed men, some of whom she recognized as Bane's henchmen, were trashing department store fronts and smashing into the cars parked at the curb. The street was littered with trash, splintered wooden furniture that she could only guess had been thrown from upper windows and balconies, and broken glass. She kept her pace as she moved down the concrete, careful to avoid a group of men as they forced a distressed elderly woman out of her fur coat and snatched her purse away from her before taking off in the opposite direction

As the wealthy attempted to flee their homes, the rallied masses overtook them; punches were thrown, screams were throttled. Susan stepped over the remains of several pieces of looted luggage and whipped around half startled as a car was overturned somewhere down the street. The deafening crash was swallowed by the sound of more screaming and shattering glass and a few scattered gun shots.

"Please, please, no!" came a strangled cry from somewhere overhead and Susan crouched low as she watched a group of rebels toss an older man out into the street. He hit the pavement with a sickening crunch. There was a chorus of approval. Someone nearby was violently sick. She kept her distance from the body and moved forward, catching sight of her mother's apartment, the number glistening sharply beside the door which had been ripped from its hinges.

The sight set her into action and she bolted toward the door, evading a few frightened crowds as she went. A small group of scruffy men in loud orange jumpsuits reached the door first and turned to jeer at Susan when she mounted the stairs after them.

"Hey there, pretty lady," the first of them called and Susan overtook him in an instant, her vines curling menacingly around him and breaking his skinny body with ease. She squeezed too hard and a bit of blood spurted across her face. Disgusted, she threw him over her shoulder and didn't flinch when his body hit the ground. His comrades stared in horror.

"Move," she commanded and her voice frightened her almost; it was dark and vicious and cruel. The men did as she said, scattering like roaches, their fallen friend quickly forgotten. Her vines moved around her, curling around her arms, nestling along her shoulders, weaving through her hair as she shuddered with rage. She looked over her shoulder at the people in the streets. They watched her fearfully; they would not make the same mistake as the loose prisoners.

She seemed to float across the threshold, enveloped by her fury as she moved from room to room, calling her mother's name fitfully. Broken glass crunched under her feet and she had to pick her way through the wreckage; the chandelier that had been torn from the ceiling fixture, the paintings that had been ripped from the walls, the odd silver that had been wrung from its drawers. The apartment was silent and Susan felt her stomach clench with fear as she neared the last room in the house.

She found her mother in her bedroom, her body curled limply in the corner, very badly broken, a long ugly gash ripping across her pale forehead. The murder weapon lay a few feet away: a blood-stained porcelain vase, an anniversary present from her father.

"No…no…"

Susan's scream rang through the empty apartment, startling the crowd outside and warning the people making their way up the stairs to turn and run away. She fell to her knees, her sobs ripping through her with such force she thought she might be sick. Like a child, she crawled to her mother and took her body in her arms, cradling her gently.

Too late, too late…she had been too late. Too late to save her mother from the flames of the rebellion. She rocked violently, clutching her mother, her head thumping against the wall horribly, again and again. Her guilt consumed her and she wept freely until her face numbed and the sobs turned to hard hiccups throbbing in her chest. With a gentle reverence, she closed her mother's eyes. The vines uncoiled themselves from her arms and helped her lift her mother onto the bed. Her eyes closed in grief, her palms growing warm with energy, she began to create, flower after flower, bloom after bloom, falling through her fingers. She set them around her mother, her hands still twitching with pain as she dressed the bed with fragrant bouquets. When she was finished, she stared at her mother, her beautiful mother, until she couldn't stand it any longer. She turned to leave, her grief and her misery weighing in the pit of her stomach; she made sure to lock the door behind her. The thought of the body vulnerable to the madness in the streets wet her eyes with hot, shameful tears.

Retreating numbly down the hall, she stumbled on a small unfamiliar wooden box that had been thrown haphazardly onto the floor. Susan frowned. She'd never seen anything like this in her mother's possession…wiping her tears away quickly, she knelt and examined it. Inside she found a few dozen folded notes, handwritten letters, postcards, all in the same cramped, slanted cursive. They were all addressed to her mother…and signed by her father. Her eyes widened with a surge of excitement at her find but a sudden violent crash from the front hall distracted her attention and turned her stomach foul with rage. She slid the letters back into the box and tucked it under her arm, striding toward the front door, newly rejuvenated by her rage. The intruders were just inside the doorway, absurdly ripping the crystals from the destroyed chandelier. They hardly had time to register her appearance; Susan split their skulls in a matter of heated seconds.

The blood was still warm against her skin and the sun was waning in the sky when she arrived back at city hall, having masterfully dodged the chaos and slithered into safety by the back door. The disturbance in the main lobby was still mounting but Susan managed to creep to the elevators without detection. She fidgeted in the lift, anxious to inspect the box still tucked firmly under her arm, but stilled as she caught sight of herself in the glossy elevator doors. Her hair was matted from the cold and the wind; her face and her clothes splattered with red; and her eyes…her eyes were bright with rage, with excitement, still shining from the tears. She was terrifying. And beautiful.

The doors slid open with a low hiss and the mad, elegant creature disappeared. Susan blinked stupidly before retuning to herself and striding out into the hall, her legs moving her toward the door to the apartment. She found it as empty and as horribly quiet as she left it. Setting the box on the simple glass table beside the couch, she went quickly to the bedroom and shoved the small cellular phone Selina had given her under the mattress; she couldn't imagine the consequences were Bane to find it.

And then, at last. She sat on the edge of the couch and carefully, tentatively, flipped the wooden lid of the box and began rifling through the letters, checking the dates first. The oldest one was dated back in 2001 – the year of her seventeenth birthday. She started with that one, unfolding it excitedly, her eyes scanning the lines erratically:

_My dearest, _

_ There has been progress. I have been granted permission to write you but I'm afraid it must be very little at this time. Hopefully I will not have to write you much longer, hopefully I will return to you soon. The final prototype of the mask has been achieved. It is efficient. The League is pleased with me this time. I do not know what lies ahead. I pray it is home. _

_ With all of my love,_

_ Leonid_

The mask…the _mask_. Susan's gasp hitched in her throat, her sudden realization hitting her with tremendous force. Her father had been working for Bane long before the development of the nuclear reactor. Her father – and her mother even – had helped _to create his mask_. The memories flooded her then. The dark hallway, the blood on the floor, the gray eyes…it was him. _It was Bane_. Her disbelief shook her violently and with trembling hands, she thumbed through the rest of the letters. Sparse words, wishful words, empty words…her father's words were obviously censured. There was only the repeated mention of the "League" – capitalized, important…her mind reeled with the onslaught of information, the discoveries, the conclusions that had so suddenly, so simply presented themselves.

All those years of questions, of pleading, and of burning curiosity smothered beneath her sorrow and her apathy…resolved in a matter of moments. Her mother had hidden these letters from her to protect her, of course, and Susan could feel nothing but a horrid, bitter wretchedness that even for her efforts she had fallen into disaster. The very man they had strove to protect her from…and she was living in his company, as his _ally_…

"Susan."

She closed her eyes, having hardly the energy to flinch at Bane's unexpected arrival.

"You're bleeding."

She turned her face to him slowly and mustered a tired triumphant smile. She didn't bother to ask where he had been. She knew. "It's not my blood."

He seemed pleased by her answer, hooking his thick fingers in the collar of his flak vest. "Did you enjoy the festivities?"

Her smile melted away to a bitter grimace. "The city has gone to hell."

"No, my dear, the city was already in ruins," he replied, regarding her with a righteous nod, "This is merely the rapture. Meant to cleanse – tear down the established order in preparation for a more glorious dawn."

She fought the terrible urge to roll her eyes at his twisted patriotism and opted merely to shake her head, shuffling the letters into a neat pile and placing them back into the box. She disregarded Bane's predatory gaze as she stood to leave.

"What are those?" he inquired idly, nodding to the box in her hand.

"Mine," she replied shortly but a hand on her arm stilled her defiance. Her breath caught in her throat as she felt his thumb slip under the edge of her sleeve to brush her cold, bare skin.

He stared at her momentarily, a simple curiosity in his eyes, before he spoke. "Don't be uncivil, Susan. Wash up, won't you? Join me for dinner."

Susan blinked as his hand fell away from her arm and she walked away, still dazed by his request, her legs working robotically under her. The box she set on top of the bureau and after retrieving a fresh pair of clothes, she quickly found a bathroom. The light was weary, the tiles were white, and the water she fixed at a scalding temperature. Anything to wake her bemused mind.

The puddles at her feet were pink with old blood but the shower was wonderful, if not brief. She stepped out onto the bathmat, not bothering with the towel just yet, as she approached the mirror drenched with steam. She wiped a streak of it away with her hand and inspected her body. Pale and unblemished, save for a few hundred miserably cheerful freckles dotting her shoulders and her collarbones and two rosy knots of flesh; one on her chest and the other on her arm.

The bruises that had once roped her neck had vanished and complexion was not as terrible as it had been, when she'd first emerged from her exile. Save for the tart color of her cheeks, flushed from her crying and the heat of the shower, she looked almost herself…almost. Her palms were a vibrant green and she kissed them gently before dressing quickly and leaving the humid climate of the restroom.

The kitchen had perhaps once been a small office but had been refitted with stainless steel appliances. A sink, a stove and oven, a refrigerator, a few white-washed cupboards. She found Bane sitting at the table in the center of the room, working a small plastic pouch of what looked like mush in his large hands.

"Help yourself to whatever you like," he murmured and she felt his eyes on her as she went straight for the most obvious: the fridge. It was mostly bare save for some odd fruits and vegetables, two cases of bottled water, and a few more plastic packets of a paste like substance, similar to the one Bane was now handling. The freezer was more plentifully stocked but not with anything appetizing; frozen meat mostly. Susan settled on an apple, wiping it absently on the front of her sweater.

"Wouldn't you prefer a more sturdy meal?" Bane inquired politely as she settled gracefully into the seat opposite him. "There's plenty of protein – "

"I'm a vegetarian," she stated plainly, biting into her apple. The juice flooded her mouth and kicked her salivary glands into high gear. She wiped the sweet residue from her mouth with the back of her hand and caught sight of Bane smirking at her, his eyes twinkling playfully.

"Isn't that a little ironic?"

Susan smiled in spite of herself and shook her head, balking at the idea of casual, witty conversation with _him_. "What's on the menu?" she nodded to the packet in his hand. It was then she noticed the plastic tubing and the IV needle.

"Peripheral nutrition," he replied, fixing the needle at the base of the tube and rolling up his sleeve deftly as he had done, no doubt, countless times before, "Glucose, lipids, dietary vitamins…everything I need in this little pouch." He hardly blinked as he slid the needle in, holding it in place with one hand and pumping the packet with the other.

She bit back the urge to make a scathing comment, feeling suddenly sorry for the man who wallowed in his own sort of irony. A conqueror, a colossus, feeding from a tube… "How long have you had the mask?" she inquired lightly, her mouth busily working another hunk of apple.

Bane sighed, his eyes searching the Formica table top. "Many years now. I was a young man when I was first fitted for it."

Susan's mind wandered to her father's letters. "It keeps the pain at bay…"

He gave a slow affirmative nod. "But you already know that – and have used it to your advantage."

She took another hard bite of her apple to conceal her proud smirk and chewed thoughtfully as another question occurred to her. "What caused the pain?"

The smile fell away from his eyes and the hand at the needle in his arm twitched slightly. "An accident. Also many years ago. I hardly remember it now."

A lie, Susan decided, but dropped the subject, noting the considerable tension in the air. It was obviously not a matter he was ready to discuss – not with her. It was silent for a moment beside the occasional crunch of her apple, the wet squelching of the bag as Bane gave it a periodic squeeze, and his slow steady breathing. When her apple was finished, she set the core aside and admired the black oval seeds as she combed through her hair with her sticky fingers. Bane watched her, that curious light returning to his eyes once more, as his gaze lingered on the gentle red waves, shining dimly even for the dull light….

"What do you miss the most?" she asked softly, twisting a few droplets of water from her hair, feeling suddenly and inexplicably brazen, "About life without the mask, I mean. Chocolate? Liquor? Kisses?"

The question seemed to catch him off guard for he stared at her blankly for a moment or so before his head gave a brisk shake. "I…I was never granted very many pleasures before the mask but I do recall being somewhat fond of, disgustingly enough…American cheeseburgers."

She blinked. The response was so absurd, so human coming from him…the laughter rolled through her in great bursting gulps. Her body shook with it as she slumped in her seat, her head tilting back with mirth. She looked at him blearily and saw he was staring at her again, confused, his eyes narrowed as if he suspected her of mocking him. But then at last they gave way to a smile once more and beneath the sound of her own ebullient laughter she thought she heard a few loose rumbling chuckles.

When she quieted at last, she leaned languidly across the table, suddenly exhausted, her throat still itching with laughter. She stared squarely at Bane, unafraid of him or the silence, but his gaze lingered on her hair, the waves splayed out across the checked tabletop. Susan thought, from the look in his eyes, that he might've wanted to run his fingers through it. The notion sent a chill shivering up her spine; but she did not recoil, languishing under his gaze…

"Susan," he began and she met his gaze; her name sounded familiar in his mouth. "Go to the cabinet there, above the stove, and fetch me the first aid kit. I'll need your help."

Rising from her seat, she saw that the nutrition packet had been squeezed dry. She retrieved the kit as he requested and opened it up to find the appropriate materials: an antiseptic wipe, a cotton swab, and a bandage. Their hands moved in unison as he removed the needle and she quickly dabbed at the crook of his arm before pressing firmly into the puncture with the swab of cotton to draw what little blood remained. She noticed then how he seemed to relax as she drew near and frowned quizzically as she observed his hooded eyes, his low thunderous breath, drinking in the air with deep indulgent gulps…

It was when she drew away to fix the bandage that he seemed to react, so swiftly and with such force that Susan froze, startled, staring at the large hand caging her wrist. She felt his thumb run over the swell of her veins and she shivered at the almost tender touch. His eyes flickered open. "Don't - " he began, his voice pitching violently.. Then as if remembering himself, he relinquished his grip, his head giving another brisk shake. "No need. I'll do it myself," he murmured, snatching up the bandage on the table.

She stared at him uneasily, the calm between them evaporating in a matter of seconds, and watched his brow arch sternly. He gave her a hard look.

"Goodnight, Susan."

His harsh tone was evident. Dinner was over. She was dismissed.

Night had fallen and the chill clung to the windows in the bedroom. She drew the curtains, glancing wistfully at the dark city, darker now for the winter fast approaching. The covers were soft against her skin but they offered no comfort; her mind was reeling too harshly to sleep and her body too exhausted to keep awake. She floated, passing in between the blue shadows of the room, haunted by the sound of tinkering glass and flame; and even when she thrust herself quite unceremoniously into sleep, turning her face into the pillow, all she saw was dark eyes.

**A/N**

**A nice lengthy one for my beautiful readers. Gosh I love you and I'm sorry to report classes start up again tomorrow. Bleh. I refuse to let them swallow me up again and frazzle me and I promise I will keep writing and try to update as much as possible. Just please – patience! **** Thank you once again for your wonderful eyes and interest, reads and reviews. **

**Love & art. **


	12. Chapter 12

The apartment was quiet, eerily so, hushed save for the low thrumming purr of the heater and distant ticking of a clock on the wall in the kitchen above the stove. The hands crept toward midnight; Susan had long retired to her bedroom down the hall and she must have been sound asleep by now, Bane supposed; he envied her peace of mind. After "dinner", he'd sunken into the chair in the living room, and found himself lost, staring out at the steadily darkening city, keeping watch as he did now.

He was quite disturbed.

He couldn't quite place the change he felt within him but it consumed him almost entirely, this sudden feeling of…well, he couldn't quite place it. It was a sensation that was as strange as it was unsettling; it wore on his skin like a sheen, wallowing in his bones, in his very cells, striking deep within him and resounding like some terrible exultant echo…It was _different_. An almost agreeable sensation in comparison to his characteristic misery, which lay dormant, seething within him. His mind searched for reason, trying desperately to whittle the sudden inexplicable mood away with logic and explanation and found himself one culprit: Susan Isley. The simple confession of the fact turned his stomach and troubled him further.

Although she could not so easily entice him as she had his simple-minded men, Bane would be vain to deny that her presence affected him. Even for her violence and her wrath and her defiant spirit, she possessed an overwhelming calm, an effortless grace that seemed to transcend her; a serenity that he had merely grasped when she had touched him…the high had been so terribly perfect. His agony totally eclipsed, not simply suppressed, but a whisper in the back of his reeling mind…he could not equate the feeling of complete and perfect bliss, that both terrified him and enlivened him. He craved it hideously…

The pain was all he knew and to have it drawn so suddenly from his blood, ripped from around his shoulders like a dreadful shroud…it paralyzed him. It gave him hope and that in turn aroused within him a frantic need to choke it out, to deny it.

It was this feeling of excitement, of thrilling, stammering brilliance that inspired his ultimate plan for Susan: she would be a weapon but a weapon of _hope_. Her beauty, her capacity for creation, for compassion would inspire the citizens of Gotham and poison their souls…The city at his disposal, he would allow her to cultivate the gray expanse, to revive what had fallen into decay; the people would assume their victory over death and destruction and they would come to _truly _believe that Gotham was capable of redemption... and then he would annihilate every last one of them.

However, he had reason to doubt the reach of Susan's humanity. She was of nature and nature was impartial, cruel almost in its justice…if she did not act to save the people of Gotham from their inevitable fate by compassion alone, Bane reasoned, she would most certainly do so simply for the thrill of challenging him.

He smiled in spite of himself. A curious creature…but unnerving still. He had irrefutably caught a reaction from her and found, with a disgusting amount of reproach, he could hardly stand it now – his lust for the miraculous remedial sensation of her touch. Quite foolishly, he had grasped for it, chancing at a few brief encounters to graze her skin, _hopeful, _repulsively _hopeful,_ encounters that left Susan shivering and uneasy.

Yes, he was quite disturbed.

_He'd caught a reaction_..

And, oh, it had nearly made him sick to look at her, shaking with laughter, stretching herself across the table, smelling so horribly sweet, and her hair, her _hair_…he reeled, the color dancing in front of his eyes, and groaned quietly, rising slowly to his feet. He heaved a sigh, a low steady sound deep in his chest, and steeled himself.

He would have _control. _

But first – he moved through the shadows, into the kitchen, and the quiet was broken by the sound of his rummaging. He found what he sought. There was only one thing to do really, to deny himself one small impulse…he began silently down the hall, his muscles twitching excitedly, the blades in his hand glinting balefully in the cool blue light.

0000

Burning.

Something was _burning_…Susan struggled to open her weary eyes. The room was musky and close with lush warmth and filled with the light, comforting crackle of kindling emanating from the fireplace on the far wall; she could feel the cold waiting to seize her, just beyond the edge of the bed. Seduced by the heat, she turned herself into the mattress, burying herself completely with the bedclothes, eager to fall back asleep.

But, no – something was burning. Something _horrible_. As her deadened senses slowly awakened, they were affronted with a putrid smell, a contrast to the deep, familiar aroma of smoldering firewood. She glared into the dark, at the lively orange shadows dancing in the hearth and sighing, bracing herself for the cold, threw the covers aside and went to inspect the fire. Glancing blearily about the room, she saw that her flowers had closed their blooms in slumber, the leaves turned inward in the dark; the light creeping into the room from under the large upholstery curtains was a sullen, unpromising pink.

_Morning already, _she thought miserably as she shuffled closer to the heat, taking up one of the metal rods in the stand beside the hearth. Stoking the flames gently, the smell only worsened and she shrunk away, thoroughly disgusted. It was then she saw what was sprinkled across the woodpile, burning along with the rest of kindling: long strands of once-beautiful hair. _Red _hair. _Her _hair.

With a gasp her hands flew to her head, fingers eager to feel the familiar unruly tresses. They were met with a short mess of hair, rudely and unevenly _chopped. _Her anger was the only thing that surpassed her surprise; she was not so upset that her hair was cut – it would, of course, grow back. But it incensed her that the culprit, _Bane, _had snuck into her room while she lay sleeping, ignorant, vulnerable…She slammed the rod back into its stand with a clang and swept from the heat and odor the room and out into the hall. The once-quiet apartment was suddenly flooded with noise, the creaking and slamming of doors as she checked each room, her eyes searching wildly in the dark for a large familiar figure.

She discovered a small bedroom, similar to hers, behind one of the many doors and at last her gaze found Bane, lying supine upon the bed, the covers undisturbed and pulled taught beneath him. Her fury faltered at finding him in such a vulnerable state; she didn't suppose men like him, of his caliber, slept or satisfied any human functions for that matter. She managed to tear her eyes away from his sleeping figure and glanced about the room. It was empty and plain save for a simple desk of fine, polished wood cluttered with paperwork, folders, a steel gray laptop. Beside the desk was a rather profound stack of books which momentarily struck her interest; her gaze lingered on the titles, undistinguishable in the dark, before she spotted the crate in the corner. A hulking blockish thing that Susan recognized as the case of medication he had taken from her apartment. From the looks of its contents, he was running low…

She shook her head, tearing herself away from the room, and moving toward the man on the bed. Putting a hand to his chest, so small in comparison, she jostled him lightly.

"Bane," she called, her voice clear and hard and commanding in the quiet light of the bedroom. His eyes flickered open instantly, glancing about alertly as though years of training had conditioned him to do so.

"Susan," he replied, slightly muzzy with sleep. "Did you have a bad dream?" he chided meanly. He peered down the bulk of his mask at her hand on his chest. She withdrew it quickly and he began to sit up. His minute wince of pain did not go unnoticed.

"You cut my hair," she accused plainly, folding her arms across her chest.

"And you don't like what I've done with it? I find it rather flattering…"

"Shut up," she snapped, her irritation returning suddenly at his smug compliment, "Why did you do it?"

He sighed, his mask crackling mechanically. "You draw too much attention in a crowd, my dear. In all of this grey – you're an obvious target."

"Says the colossus with headgear," she replied flatly.

He tilted his head, narrowing his eyes at her keenly. "Are you always this foul-mannered in the morning?" She responded with nothing more than a scowl as he rose from the bed, stretched lightly, and began out of the room. "Come, Susan. It is good you're up. Today you begin your training."

She cringed at the curiosity blooming in the pit of her stomach and followed after him bitterly out into the hall and into the main room. "Training?"

"Your power is strong, my dear, but _you _are not," he explained, crossing behind the couch to the windows. He drew the curtains wide and the room quickly filled with more of that dull pinkish light – an unimpressive dawn and a harbinger of rain. "You've no discipline, no control, making for a quick defeat by a more experienced, more refined opponent – "

"Such as yourself?" she guessed with a sneer.

He seemed to smile. "Precisely. Which is why you'll be fighting me for practice."

There was a beat of silence that Susan quickly filled with a dry contemptuous chuckle. "That's fresh." He stared at her, unmoving, with stolid gray eyes as serious as she hoping he wasn't; he did not waver. She sighed with quiet resignation.

He moved out from behind the couch and toward her, his steps slow and measured. "You will play fair." Tenderly, with the kind of slow patient touch she had experienced the night before, he took her hands in his; she felt the calloused pad of his thumb slide over the pods and seeds nestled under her skin and she shivered, a strange heat rising in her face.

"I'll try," she whispered, licking her lips as she drew her hands from his grasp and stepped away. At a fair distance, she straightened, pushing her freshly butchered hair from her face with a grimace. "Do you think it wise to trade blows with an angry woman?"

"Why, yes I do," he exclaimed, smiling, taking up a position opposite her "In fact, the advantage is mine…come toward me, now – as you would an attacker."

Susan hesitated, gauging her opponent. His height and muscle obviously posed the greatest advantage…the near impenetrable material of his flak vest and knee pads…and his mask prevented any direct blows to the face. This would certainly be difficult if she were playing _fair_.

She thought idly of the self-defense classes she'd taken at the Y many years ago. Useless. She began to laugh as she strode forward, raising her fists defensively, quickening her step. Aiming for the outside of his right knee, she swung her leg up and around only to have her ankle land squarely in his grasp. The room tilted in front of her eyes and she found herself very suddenly on the floor, Bane towering her, a look of mild pity on his face.

"Get up, my dear," he chided and Susan wrenched her foot away from him with a growl, "We have a lot of work to do."

Bane was relentless. His training, for the most part, consisted of action rather than proper education; he insisted that greater benefit lay in _doing_. Sink or swim. With little training and at a disadvantage without the use of her power, Susan did much of the former. In defense of her petty attacks, Bane forced her familiarity with the harsh cold of the wood floor. She could already feel large, extravagant bruises blossoming across her back, her shoulders, her arms, and legs.

Several times she had lashed out at him with her vines in bitter frustration, embarrassed by her weakness. He remained placid and unaffected by the ferocity of her attacks, breaking the vines he could catch with calm ease; instead of instruction, he taunted her and rebuked her anger as childish and futile. A challenge. She pushed herself and eventually, miraculously, managed a half-way decent jab or two to his ribs – only to end up with her arms pinned behind her, her fingers still tingling with the successful blow.

The parlor was silent save for the sound of their breathing, the air trembling with the almost tangible energy of their bodies still at last. She could smell the almost sweet, visceral scent of his sweat mixing with her own and she suddenly became very aware of the man behind her, holding her tightly. Her mouth went dry with more than just trepidation when she felt his face in her hair, the mouthpiece of his mask sliding toward her ear. They stood very still, very close to one another, silent, breathing…

"That's enough for today, I believe" Bane murmured quietly and released her. Her arms hung limply at her sides, still ringing with a dull ache that she could feel slowly creeping over her body. Hesitantly, she drew a long breath, exhaling slowly, wary of the pain. Stretching carefully, she watched as Bane lumbered from the room, leaving her alone to her ministrations. Without giving it much thought, she followed after him, wading through the gray light of the midday sun pouring in from the window before disappearing down the hall.

He returned to his quarters and seemed surprised to find her so close behind. They regarded each other silently for a moment or so before he moved into the adjoining bathroom. Susan lingered just inside of the doorway. There was the rusty sound of a faucet and the thrum of running water as the shower came on. The noise seemed to break her from her stillness. She wandered over to the stack of books in the corner that she had eyed curiously earlier that morning. Stroking their spines gently, she tilted her head to read the worn print of the titles. She recognized a few names here and there. Classics, biographies, theological, spiritual material…she was admittedly impressed by his depth. Of course he had always struck her as a scholar.

"I like your library," she called and leaned in to inhale the ancient musty aroma of yellowed pages and promising ink. He appeared in the doorway to the bathroom, half-dressed. The plain of skin where Susan had struck him was hardly pink, she noted with some chagrin.

"You're welcome to borrow anything you like," he replied simply. He shifted his weight as he stepped from his boots and Susan turned away to continue her perusal of the titles. _A Tale of Two Cities. Les Misérables. The Gods are Athirst. _She noticed a theme.

"You like books about revolution," she remarked aloud, taking up the Dickens novel and leafing through it idly. The margins were busy with ink smudges and incoherent scribbling, a few key passages and phrases underlined here and there. From the condition of its pages – yellowed, dog-eared, fragile to the touch – she could tell it had been read thoroughly; she guessed it was one of his favorites.

"We have much to learn from such literature, fiction or otherwise." He ambled to her side, his footsteps quiet without his boots. The heat of activity was still radiating from his from and Susan felt her skin prickle at the sensation of his closeness. "Revolution is the seed of creation."

She flipped the book closed. "And destruction."

A light flickered to life in his eyes. "Sounds familiar. Doesn't it?"

She stared at him, unmoving, and yet her mind reeled with the ominous promise of his words. She had to keep the danger present in her mind, had to remember precisely the reason for her training; if she were to lose herself to his heat, his voice in her ear, his face in her hair, that would mean surrender. Submission as a weapon in his hands.

She focused very keenly on the sound of running water to clear her mind; she could smell nothing but the must of the books and the scent of his skin and she struggled for something smart and terrible to say. He knelt suddenly to retrieve the crate from beside the careening tower of books, the plastic vials within clicking quietly, and set it upon the end of the bed.

"If I provide the necessary supplies," he began, picking up a vial along with the necessaries for injection, "Will you make more?"

It was a question. Not a command. Susan made note of the subtle plea in his voice. An edge of _need_.

_You need me.._

"Of course." She reasoned she would enjoy the routine and it would give her something to do when Bane wasn't throwing her around the living room. She winced at the thought.

"You haven't lost your touch, have you _doctor_?"

She couldn't help but smirk, bristling at his keen suggestion in his voice. "You tell me," she murmured coolly, reaching out and nudging him gently with the tips of her fingers in the center of his chest. A small reminder.

The touch triggered something within him, she saw. The playful light in his eyes seemed to waver, seemed to change, eclipsed by a vague unreadable shadow. His mask crackled as he inhaled sharply and he blinked with surprise at the intense and immediate release of endorphins now coursing through his system that she had willed to pass through her touch.

But she withdrew from him just as quickly, noting the look of bewildered dissatisfaction that crossed his face as she turned to leave, the book tucked neatly under arm. It wasn't until she had curled up once more amidst the flora in her room, the putrid stench of burning hair a distant note on the air, when she heard a low mechanical hiss followed swiftly by the furious, frustrated slam of a door that she knew she had not, in fact, lost her touch at all.


	13. Chapter 13

Bane's tutelage continued and Susan bore the mornings of training with unknown resolve. She was a quick learner and embraced his aggressive style of instruction, eager to hone her skill and her anger so that she might once again have the upper-hand – if only for a few minutes. As the weeks wore on, she fell once more into routine. Bane was a strict tutor, a fact she openly resented. Every morning, her sleep was disturbed by a hand snaking beneath the covers, closing around her ankle, yanking harshly. Her stomach would turn with frustration and groaning her curses and objection, she would eventually drag herself from the bed and follow Bane into the living room. The furniture was always already pushed aside and the curtains thrown wide to whatever light the morning brought. Then she would train just as she had that first morning. An open attack, followed by corrections. Her back against the floor, her fists ringing with a smartly aimed blow, her body humming with energy. Bane grew more generous with his instruction and gentler in his defense, saving her the bruises and the aches. On one or two occasions, he even granted her a compliment.

They were finished when he decided they were finished and he often pushed her past the point of total exertion, leaving her panting and unable to move the next morning for her screaming muscles. But the pain slowly dissipated and her body adapted, sharpened with the keen edge of a new, severe discipline. She grew strong and came to relish the force of a blow, the sting on her knuckles, the power she felt as she moved across the room, ready, fierce…

Breakfast followed promptly after their session and, in many ways, was a sort of training in and of itself. They sat together, either at the table in the kitchen or on the couch in the parlor if the morning was pretty enough. Susan continued to avoid the meat in the freezer and fixed anything she could; for Bane, breakfast came in a plastic pouch. But often he didn't eat at all, opting instead to watch her eat or amuse himself with a book or a file from his desk. Conversation was regular and almost enjoyable, Susan would admit, and she was often reminded of the exchanges they had often shared back in Daggett's apartment.

They never talked of menial things for they both equally loathed idle, senseless chatter. Questions floated between them, wet with wanton curiosity; answers were given sparingly. Susan understood the hesitation lingering behind every word just as he understood her own reluctance: knowing too much of the other was simultaneously inviting and dangerous. It was acceptance. It was trust. It was a connection they both regarded with disquiet.

The subject of Susan's childhood seemed to strike Bane with particular interest. He liked to hear her reminisce on her numerous travels, curious about the places she'd been, the ruins and landscapes she had once beheld with childlike wonder. He was especially keen on the fact that she had been a wealthy child – and he openly rebuked her for the fact. From what she could gauge of his past, Susan figured Bane had been born into poverty and misery and lived most of his life in the company of the two; his resentment of the rich was only mild however. Although his disdain for the wealthy was apparent, it was not the guiding force behind his "liberation".

Whenever she prodded him with questions about how and why he had come to Gotham, he reiterated a few tired lines about "true justice" and corruption that, although preached with characteristic charisma and zeal, lacked the proper resolve of a truly self-righteous revolutionary. Susan could not believe that he had made his motives completely clear or that his actions, his words were entirely his. She thought of the woman who had come to visit Bane the day he revealed the bomb. Although Susan never in fact saw her, she knew that the woman had come to the apartment. Every once in a while she would find a glass, misplaced on the counter, a stain of mauve lipstick sitting plainly on the rim. Or she would wander into Bane's bedroom to retrieve another book and catch the faint scent of perfume lingering in the air.

She never questioned Bane about the mysterious woman and he didn't seem open to share. He imparted very little of himself to Susan, just enough to satiate her curiosity, but she didn't terribly mind. Talking too much, being forced to remember relics of memory in his past often sent him into one of his gloomy moods that annoyed Susan and killed any conversation stone dead.

The rest of the day was hers to spend and she spent most of her days in complete and utter boredom. She had discovered a terrace in one of the many dark, unused rooms of the apartment and staked her claim in the unoccupied wrought iron territory. On days of decent weather and even a rare spot of sunshine, Susan would assume her unofficial throne undisturbed; the agony of the city seemed very far away up there, with the cooling heat of a once seething metropolis breathing against her face, and she regarded it all with an impassive eye. The people had elected her as their conqueror along with Bane; she could sense no gain in refusing their popular opinion.

Of course, there were the books to enjoy, which she devoured eagerly, and while she had been keen to decipher the writing in the margins, she would later discover they were in Arabic and promptly gave up the challenge. In those weeks she learned more about revolution and bloodshed and the trial and despair of men than she would ever have liked to but the reading was a welcomed distraction from her ennui and the troublesome toil of her mind, the thoughts creeping steadily into the front of her mind when she allowed herself an empty, honest moment.

Her father. Her mother. They haunted her still, lost to her, just beyond her reach; their fate had been sealed she supposed the moment they agreed to the strangers knocking on their door so many years ago. They had unknowingly saved the life of the very man that would herald their deaths. Susan shuddered to think she was claiming a similar fate by fixing more of his medicine; she continued to facilitate the man who had destroyed her family, who had stolen so much of her memory, who had so violently invaded her quiet life but when she grasped wildly for shame, for guilt, for resolve to deny him, she found herself inexplicably empty-handed.

The supplies arrived just as Bane had promised and Susan went to work, taking up the tools with a familiar ease, the beakers clinking merrily, the chemicals reacting brilliantly, correctly under her ministration. Here and only here there was order. Susan welcomed this fleeting routine; her skill as a pharmacist seemed to be the only part of her that remained of her old self.

But even for her wearisome thoughts, her boredom, her contained schedule, Susan was not unhappy. In fact, she found herself more than mildly content. As expected, her hair grew back in a matter of days, stronger, redder than before and she was sure to keep it tightly braided, out of Bane's reach. Her body proved resilient, recuperating fully from her time spent in captivity, in the dark, and her mind eagerly lapped up any and all stimulation, hungry, perpetually hungry. Nature was finding its way once more, growing within her, blooming…

Besides the phantom woman who haunted the hallways, there was only one other visitor that frequently came to call on the apartment: Barsad. Susan had first recognized him as the man who had attended to her aching skull the very first time she had woken up underground. Gaunt, smirking, and never bereft of his gun, Barsad was very obviously Bane's right hand man, his second in command. He was the one who carried out Bane's orders and directed the men and the artillery detail when he was otherwise preoccupied. On observing a few of their exchanges, she might even call them comrades.

With Barsad coming by as often as he did, with status reports and delivery schedules in need of review, Susan struck up a tentative acquaintance with the man; she had caught him more than once eyeing her with a vague curiosity from her usual perch on the couch in the parlor.

"I don't bite," she'd said, smiling wickedly and setting aside the book in hand.

A slow smirk crept across his face. "It's not your bite I'm worried about."

"I assure you there's no danger of _that_," she replied, "Not with him around." She'd nodded to the kitchen, where Bane was about to sit down to a feast of amino acids. "I've been given strict orders not to seduce any of you men."

His lips gave a little twitch and he eyed the doorway to the kitchen. "That wouldn't be so bad, would it?"

Susan hummed, sighing lustily. "I would kill you."

"On the other hand, a bit of conversation never hurt anyone."

"No, never."

And so it began.

Barsad, at ease, turned out to be anything but another single-minded mercenary. True, he was completely and utterly dedicated to Bane's destruction and at best a scoundrel who took pleasure in his petty control of the city and doling out its scarce resources to the most depraved citizens, he was talkative company which Susan absentmindedly enjoyed; she could proudly admit to considering throwing him over the side of her terrace only once or twice. By this time, she couldn't tell whether falling in with bastards like Barsad was the symptom or the cause of her delicate, tinkering madness.

Regardless, Bane did not approve of their odd rapport which constituted mostly of sarcastic remarks and long hours spent glazing in front of the television. Empty hours and empty conversation – Bane objected to it all the same and often forced his man from the apartment merely for a show and reminder of authority which Barsad observed sheepishly; their displays left Susan in stitches of wicked laughter and Bane's eyes flashing as he retreated into his study to shake off the echoes of her amusement.

Barsad usually came on Thursday evenings so she was mildly surprised when he ambled into the apartment a day earlier; it was a particularly wet Wednesday afternoon and a few stray raindrops rolled down the sleeve of his jacket as he passed her, striding purposefully for Bane's quarters. He winked at her brightly before rounding the corner for the hallway and fixing his face for business. Uninspired, Susan returned to watching the rain as it danced and rippled across the wide windowpane; it was a slow, feeble patter and was nearly putting her to sleep with Barsad reappeared, baptizing her with a few more cold droplets as he sailed right past her and into the kitchen. He returned moments later with what was unmistakably a bottle of vodka.

"What the hell?" she remarked casually, straightening herself with the arm of the couch.

"I've had this stashed for nearly a week now," he explained quickly, an edge of unrestrained excitement in his voice, "You'll join me then? Out on that terrace of yours?"

"You must be joking."

He stared at her.

"It's hardly four in the afternoon."

He blinked.

"And it's raining…"

"Look", he began, turning the frosty bottle around in is gloved hands, "If you can't handle your liquor just say so and I'll find another idiot to drink with – "

"Fine! Come along then," she muttered, rolling her eyes as she left the warmth of the couch to take him by the arm and lead him from the room.

The rain has reached a lull, puttering lazily on the roof of the terrace. The afternoon was inexplicably warmer than most and the air was thick with moisture and the smell of exhaust and ash. They huddled together for the warmth their coats did not provide, dangling their legs through the bars of the balcony's gate; Barsad hadn't bothered with glasses and they resolved to swig straight from the bottle, careful not to drop it over the ledge.

"What's the occasion?" Susan inquired idly and snatched the bottle away from her partner for the first swig. The vodka burned her throat deliciously and set a flame deep in her belly; the last drink she'd had she had shared with Yves. She pushed the thought away.

"Does a man need an occasion to share a drink with a pretty lady?" he exclaimed, reaching into his pocket to fish out a new pack of cigarettes. He thwacked them harshly on his open palm and smiled, noting the way Susan's eyes widened at his treat. "Do you smoke?"

It had really been too long. "I suppose."

Their smoke rose in great plumes to mix with the crown of fog mantling the top of the building. The heady mix of alcohol and tobacco stirring in her system, Susan felt briefly, absurdly, like a teenager, sneaking sips of cigarettes in the back alleys and between classes. Careless. For a moment, she was careless. The bottle was passed between them twice more before Barsad bothers to really explain and then his voice was bubbling with warmth.

"No, no, really," he murmured, "I just have nothing to do. Can you believe that? All my ducks in line – isn't that what you _Americans _say?"

"Something to that affect," she laughed, the heat in her belly leaping brightly and tickling her heart. She chewed thoughtfully on the end of her cigarette. "Barsad, how does a complete fool such as yourself get – mottled up – with men like Bane? Was there some self-righteous bastard convention I didn't hear about?"

He scowled and snatched the bottle from her childishly. "Don't be silly. I've been initiated, of course."

She blanked, flicking her cigarette over the rail. "Initiated?"

"Into the League of Shadows."

A moment of clarity and a flash of ink. Yes, the _League_. The subject of much apprehension in her father's letters. She pressed him further. "And what is the League of Shadows?"  
Barsad snorted, passing her a mild look of condescension along with the pack of cigarettes when she reached for them. "Oh, you don't know by now? They're – we're – the whole reason for the season. For all this." He kicked his feet, gesturing to the steadily darkening maze of city streets below.

"Why bother?" she asked, trying with much difficulty to sound casual as she stole another swig of liquor and stifled her hiccup with a greedy smile. "I mean – Gotham is a cesspool. But this all seems a bit unnecessary."

"It's all very necessary, Susan," he murmured, growing suddenly serious. "When there is corruption, deep-seeded corruption, when it is a disease without a cure…the League takes the role of necessary evil…to expunge such a stain from the world. We must destroy so we can rebuild…" He paused to take a long drag of his cigarette. Susan was again struck with the notion that the man's words were only familiar and conditioned, although he possessed the passion that Bane lacked. "The League gave me everything, gave me purpose…but if you ask me the entire cause has been fucking _bastardized_."

She broke from the pleasant lull of his momentarily poetic ramble, her brow creasing at his sudden complaint. "Bastardized? By what – or _who_?"

His already pale face seemed to blanch at the question and he glanced away, avoiding her curious gaze and puffing anxiously on his cigarette. "Never mind," he muttered and drowned his grumbling with a large gulp of liquor. His uneasiness was apparent; he had reached a forbidden topic of discussion which of course only worsened Susan's curiosity.

She considered pleading with him, seducing him, dangling him from the balcony for a proper shake-down…but instead opted for another toss from the bottle. The heat of it prickled her skin on the way down and the topic of the League was quickly deemed too bland for the occasion and dismissed from her mind; she nudged her companion, coaxing him out of his mood, which was growing steadily more somber, and easing the tension with absentminded chatter. She tried not to settle on any topic too intellectual; although he was far from stupid, Barsad didn't relish too much mental stimulation.

When the rhythm of the rain reached an intense crescendo, thundering down across the city and spitting back into their faces for good measure, they retreated, giggling into the room; Susan was pleasantly tipsy at this point and Barsad, who had childishly hogged the bottle, was rounding the corner for knackered; she had decided that he probably didn't get out much. There was a moment of musty silence as they stared at each other; she from her perch on the bed, her back against the headboard, and he from his spot at the end of the bed.

"You have pretty hair," he mumbled stupidly, blinking in the dim light. He pointed the neck of the near empty bottle in hand in her direction.

She shrugged at this but allowed a short hard laugh to tumble from her throat when he fell dramatically onto the bed, his knees buckling under him suddenly. The bottle slipped from his fingers and rolled across the mattress and onto the floor before either of them could register the tragedy. Susan whined low in her throat.

"You imbecile…"

Barsad groaned, pressing his face into the mattress but at a sudden recollection, he was propping himself up on his elbows, his face comically serious. "Well – if you must know…it's _her _fault. _His _and _her._"

She frowned, thoroughly confused. "What are you going on about?"

"You asked why – and who. I'm telling you." His vowels began to slip as he shook his head at her in frustration. "It's _Talia_."

At the mention of the name, he grew suddenly serious, reverent almost, bowing his head and intently studying the gray floral pattern of the coverlet. Susan's warm, sodden mind reached back to retrieve the subject of their earlier conversation. _Talia_. The reason for all this destruction, the one in charge…not Bane…she felt herself reel with a slew of questions, too steady and pressing for her stupid tongue. She tilted her heavy head against the wall, peering down at her companion.

"Is that the woman who comes to see Bane?"

Barsad looked up blearily from the bedclothes, his eyes reddened with concentration. He wet his lips nervously and averted his gaze, slowly shaking his head. He had said too much, Susan knew, and so he would say no more. She could see her answers, the satisfaction of her curiosity fading slowly in his eyes and was almost content to swallow her own questions when the figure looming in the doorway made his presence known.

"What a touching scene."

Bane's voice rumbled through the quiet and its cold volume broke upon Susan like a fantastic, terrible wave. He stood stiffly just inside the door, his chest taut with authority, his clenched fists hanging down by his sides; he was visibly irate.

"Touching?" Barsad bleated, his eyes wide and watery, "I would never!" He made a pathetic attempt to distance himself from Susan, pulling himself up onto his knees; he wavered and it took all of two seconds for Bane to cross into the room and steady him with a hand at his collar.

"Is there any conceivable reason why I shouldn't throw you from the balcony this instant for your insolence?" Bane rumbled, fixing the man with a look of causal cruelty.

She couldn't think of one and apparently neither could Barsad; he hung his head shamefully, but was careful to keep his chin from grazing Bane's hand as he held him fast.

"You have behaved abominably," he surmised and dragged him briskly to his feet, "A walk in the rain will clear your head." Barsad did not have to be told twice; he went hurriedly, if not with some difficulty, from the room not daring to throw Susan a final knowing glance. Likewise, Bane turned to leave and his gaze seemed to avoid her. Her frown creased her forehead as she suddenly found herself sitting alone in the quiet, dusty air; Bane had sniffed out her amusement and properly exterminated it.

She watched the rain for a while, innumerable fat stray droplets splattering loudly on the windowpane, chuckling at her it seemed before glancing back to the doorway; she imagined him standing there, peering in at them, at the bottle on the floor…She wandered drunkenly, stupidly to a conclusion, an explanation for his terseness and with it she slid from her perch and from the room and followed it out into the hall toward Bane's quarters.

She lingered languidly in the doorway, the jamb sliding sharply against her spine and peered in at him where he sat at his desk. The light from the lamp cast yellow shadows across the room, throwing the black horizon of his shoulders twice, three times up against the wall; there was a file open on his desk along with a small leather-bound book which he held open between his thick fingers. He tensed, sensing her presence after a minute or so and did not look at her as she moved into the room easily, gracefully, even for the blood splashing about in her brain.

"You're upset with me," she cooed mockingly as she crept nearer.

He sighed heavily, the book in his hand snapping closed with a sharp, irritated movement. "Susan, I'm in no mood for your teasing…"

"You needn't worry about Barsad," she murmured absently at his side, "He is a cad. He's…" She stopped short upon realizing that Bane had finally glanced her way, staring at her intently, unblinking, cold and searching.

"Do you think me _jealous_?" His voice was flat and horrible, echoing between them bluntly. And the truth was she did – she had – but the thought paled suddenly in his presence and the mere suggestion seemed silly. She struggled with the objection lagging on her thick tongue but he had obviously had his fill of the pretty pink flush of her face.

"On your way then," he murmured, dismissing her curtly; the book at his fingers drew his attention once more and his fingers flipped the pages with an affected patience, pretending as if she was not still standing dumbly at his side. She scowled, ashamed at her own embarrassment and angry at him for spoiling her high, and had resolved to leave, to sober herself up, to hang her head out of an open window perhaps, when she suddenly noticed something on his person she had not seen before.

Her eyes lingered on the scar that began at the base of his skull and crept along the length of his spine; the silvery line of mottled skin winked at her in the yellow light before disappearing beneath the cotton collar of his shirt.

"Susan?" He repeated sternly but his voice was very faraway, a murmur beneath the hum of blood in her ears. She stared at the wound, blinking dumbly, and slowly, ever so slowly raised her hand to trace the line with a delicate finger.

"In a minute…" She sighed and dragged her fingers along the scar. The skin was soft and faintly warm, slightly raised for the damage; it was a jagged, terrible thing and Susan, for her drowsy mind, could not even fathom the agony the original wound had caused. She felt a sweeping, inexplicable sorrow for him and her lips parted wetly, allowing a soft, sad sound to escape her chest. He had tensed considerably under her gentle searching touch but at her sigh, his skin prickled and she watched the sensation travel across his pale skin. Her muted senses did not even try to hide the affection in her touch.

And suddenly he reacted, harshly, quickly, with the fervor of a saint; the chair gave a loud wailing screech as he pushed away from the desk, rising to his feet in a matter of seconds, her wrist grasped firmly in his hand. She started, the drunken haze rapidly dissipating from her mind, and thought for a moment that he might break her little bones for interfering with him so casually – but, he drew pause, staring down at her with his chest heaving, his breath coming in loud and rattling. Then, with an almost rapturous haste, he wrenched her hand up to place it firmly at the curve of his neck. With the same almost eager quickness, he snatched up her other hand which hung numbly at her side and placed it on the warm expanse of his bare shoulder.

His eyes closed in a blatant show of gratitude and bliss and the whisper that breathed forth from his lips made Susan quake with a disquieting sensation she couldn't quite place:

"_Please_."

The need in his voice threw her and it almost absurdly repulsed her to see him in this light, mewling for her touch. Clarity rang through her sharply as Bane splayed her fingers, moved them across the width of his chest, the slope of his shoulders; she realized then that she had not willed herself to deliver a remedial touch, the same sensation that she had wielded before to assert herself and her power. Now her power acted without the force of her control, healing him rather than poisoning him; her body had abandoned the animosity she had felt toward him and sought to heal him, sought to surrender to the warmth building in the pit of her stomach –

_God, no!_

The truth, the reality of her own desire, bloomed with a forthright severity and she wavered with the weight of it, struck suddenly with the notion that if she did not leave the room immediately she might do something she would regret but ultimately enjoy. And so with a gentle firmness, she pried her hands from his grasp. His own hands, now bereft, lingered at his chest, uncertain, and he opened his eyes to stare at her; the minute glint of loss and unrest was undeniable amidst the terrible empty gray.

Susan could still feel herself wavering and kept her eyes fixed on the desolation of his eyes, away from the invitation of the bed on the opposite side of the room. He seemed to notice the apprehension in her expression and the pain in his own eyes immediately gave way to fury, to shame, to a harsh resolution. The unforgiving sight of his glare was the last she saw as she hurried from the room, overcome suddenly with a feeling of unfathomable dread….The sensation of the scar was still present beneath her fingertips as she hurried out into the hallway and with a final lurch of her stuttering heart, she closed the bedroom door firmly behind her.

0000

Once again, Bane found himself awake in the dead of night, _thinking. _He cursed himself silently as he shifted his weight, the mattress shrieking with the effort and disturbing the otherwise tranquil atmosphere of the bedroom. The moonlight spilled into the room in copious amounts, painting the walls with swatches of brilliant eerie white light, softened by the storm; the glow illuminated the place where he had stood not but a few hours before, where she had touched him so boldly, where he had –

He could not even imagine it without shuddering in reproach. The dull ache of his uncharacteristic and baffling stupidity, his _hope_, wallowed sullenly in the hollow of his chest. To think…he had misread her curiosity for affection, her foul pity for longing…and yet he had felt the healing promise of ecstasy in her touch, the sensation he had long craved for and she had given it forth so freely…

He could hardly stand his disappointment; his disappointment meant shame and his shame was born of his _hope_. He was sure that he hated her for denying him and her obvious inclinations and loathed her for making his hope such a bleak reality. Floating miserably in a stewing mixture of wet moonlight and his own hatred, the thought occurred to him that maybe he ought to invade her room once more, forgo the scissors this time, and make quick work of her trachea…the notion amused him for only a second before consuming him with inexplicable grief – a sorrow that turned sharply into panic when he realized all at once that he was not alone.

There was someone standing at the foot of his bed.

He sat up quickly and his eyes adjusted immediately to the shadow, blinking rapidly, in time with his pulse and the sight that greeted him only worsened his unease: Susan stood before him, pale and striking, her stern beauty intensified by the opulent moonlight; she was taking down her hair. The scent of gardenias overtook him. He could not be entirely sure that his mind was not reeling and pitching with some fever dream and his uncertainty only worsened when she began to undress, her hands working nimbly, her mouth set in a taut serious bow. He clothes whispered as she let them fall unceremoniously about her; the soft murmur of her movement brought Bane suddenly to the reality of the heat rising in the pit of his stomach and the sudden flush of his face. His hand moved unconsciously to his lap to find he was indeed unsurprisingly aroused. His stomach lurched as she discarded the last of her clothing and climbed gracefully onto the bed, moving for him with languid resolution.

"Sus - " He began, fixing her with a stern look although the keen edge in his voice betrayed him totally, but she silenced him, placing a hand on the mouthpiece of his mask. He was suddenly aware of the gentle pressure of her thighs straddling his middle and the silence grew painful.

She stared down at him, her expression cool and impassive. She rapped the round metal button of his cargo pants with her knuckle and it pinged quietly. "You'll do the honors, won't you?" There was an almost cruel levity in her voice until she smiled and reached down to press her hands on the pale span of his bare chest. The sensation was instantaneous, merciless, wonderful, and for a moment he struggled with the weight of his mind.

_He shouldn't_ – and yet.

Nature had found its way. Not with submission. No, never. He was suddenly aware of his privilege, the cool hands on his chest, moving up to stroke his neck, the soft forgiveness of her hair sweeping across his skin…It was the last certainty his mind could bear before the miraculous sensation stole him completely, enfolding him in the humid silence of the room and the shadows slipping languorously in the moonlight.


	14. Chapter 14

It was still raining when Susan awoke. The fog was pressing its slow white face to the window, peering in at her; she dragged the bedclothes up around her naked figure and turned away from the dreary gaze of the morning light. With her face settling onto the pillow, inhaling the familiar scent of sweat and her own floral aroma, she half expected to feel a hand reaching under the covers to yank her brusquely from the bed. But there was no hand because there was no Bane. And Susan was happy to wake up alone, with only the depression on the other side of the mattress and the smell of him in the sheets to serve as the only evidence that he had fallen asleep beside her.

The memory of him lingered though; mingled with the sights and sounds and sensations of the night before. She could still hear him breathing in her ear, feel the mask against her neck and the blood thrumming beneath his skin, desperate and savage…Susan had not remained on top for long; he had grown suddenly aggressive, with a grip that she had been sure would have broken her if not for some small ounce of restraint. She had fought for control and the challenge delighted her. But then…he had changed once more beneath her touch; growing gentle, tender, thoughtfully slow…and that had startled her more than his snarling ferocity or the hands pinning her to the mattress.

What unsettled her even more, however, was her own behavior. The fact that his skin had not burned where she peppered it with kisses; that she had not flinched away from the heat of his touch; and that when they had settled she had resisted so little when she felt his arm around her waist, pulling her closer and pinning her to his form…that sort of affection frightened her.

But even still, she could not remember sex being so enjoyable and she relished in the soreness of her limbs and the stiffness in her walk with a small knowing smile as she rose languidly from the bed, letting the sheets fall away from her naked figure. Crouching to retrieve her clothes from the floor, she winced at the tenderness between her legs. Bane's magnitude did not disappoint, she mused wryly and bristled slightly at the thought of making this sort of thing a habit; good thing she was adaptable.

She laughed at the thought and stepped lithely into her clothes and then out into the hallway. The apartment had settled back into its eerie silence, the wood floor whining weakly as she strode into the parlor. Yes. Empty. Bane had obviously retrieved what he had shed the night before and gone about his business. He was most likely out in the city, taking one of his regular leaves; he and Barsad liked to take patrol and he often attended the "court hearings" that took place downstairs in the lobby of City Hall. On one or two occasions he had invited Susan down to savor the scene with him; she had refused.

So, after fetching something edible from the fridge, she was free to wander about the apartment and its many rooms at her leisure, stretching every now and again to ease the tension in one of her many aching muscles. The clock on the far wall and the sickly green light, choked by the fog, streaming in from the windows told her it was hardly midday. No training this morning. She felt the solemnity of her forced routine slipping already but she didn't balk at the thought; she figured last night had been enough to count as vigorous exercise. Instead, she made her rounds, chewing thoughtfully on a plum, checking the stock of Bane's medicine and relocating a few of his older books that she had carelessly scattered about the place.

She was halfway done restacking them in his room when the domesticity of the act struck her with blunt force. What was she _doing_? She was _alphabetizing_. Frowning angrily, she sent the entire column tumbling to the floor and abruptly left the room. Without a second thought she pattered across the hall into the adjacent room, slid the glass door wide, and stepped out onto the patio. The chill of the air bit into her face and sent a scream of clarity running down her spine.

She realized then that her behavior had become habit. She had almost found a bit of pleasure in dawdling around the house like a fucking simpleton. She sneered at her own obedience and with a grunt, she threw the pit of her finished plum over the railing, following the little black core with her eyes as it tumbled through the air and out of sight.

If Bane's torture had not driven her into submission, neither would his affection. Just the thought of it sent her head reeling. Spotting Barsad's forgotten pack of cigarettes, she snatched it up; it was half empty. She sank into one of the folding chairs she herself had set up on the terrace, her cold fingers fumbling with the lighter. The first inhale was a relief.

Sex was just sex. Insignificant. Fleeting. She couldn't remember the specific reason why she had gone to him last night but she couldn't say she regretted it. After his brief and startling show of affection, she had retreated to her room in a state of shock and confusion. But it was all made clear when she had returned to him and saw the light turning in his eyes; she gave him precisely what he wanted but was too proud to ask for, too righteous to simply take. Could she say the same for herself? The thought of wanting him resounded with submission; it was at last surrendering to his subtle manipulation, to the hands and the force that had claim that had so brusquely claimed her life and steered it thus far. But…

In many ways, _she_ had claimed _him_. He had submitted to his own desire. Susan had merely to conduct her will. And it had felt good, hadn't it?  
She was thinking too much. If this was madness, it was surely disappointing. The cigarettes were making her nauseas now and she flicked the butt over the side of the terrace as well. With one final glance out over the city, she picked up the crumpled pack of cigarettes and retreated back into the apartment. Once inside the room, she eyed the empty bottle of vodka on the floor and thought better about picking it up. She wasn't a fucking housewife.

The notion stuck like a viscid, black stain in the back of her mind as she wandered into the bathroom for a shower. Lingering momentarily in front of the mirror, she noted the bruises in her state of undress. On her hips, on the pale undersides of her forearms, in the crook of her neck. Black and blue and red all over. She couldn't help but laugh dryly as she stepped under the hot stream of the shower but the cackle quickly melted into a groan of pleasure; the water felt wonderful on her muscles. She worked with what little products Bane had afforded her: miniature hotel soaps and shampoos.

Pausing in her ministrations, she wiped the soap from her face and stood plainly in front of the showerhead. She held her palms out, beneath the torrent of water and shivered with an inhuman ecstasy. The seedlings seemed to quiver with joy at the sudden attention as well. The green had spread farther across the valley of her palms, she noted, no longer confined to the center of her hand. Her brow creased momentarily with concern but she blinked away the unease; she should be glad she was healthy again.

And yet…she had let her power fall into neglect by settling into Bane's schedule. She would certainly need to remedy this. Susan mildly considered killing him. No. That wouldn't do. Her boredom would indubitably multiply. And besides – she figured they had both agreed on some unspoken promise not to kill each other. Imprudent, as Bane would say.

But she would not allow herself to grow indolent or assume the role, although twisted, of happy homemaker. Cleaning up. Providing for Bane. Waiting around for him to return. Warming his bed at his expectation…With a grunt of displeasure she switched off the shower and stepped out into the humid air of the bathroom. The steam clung to the mirror, screening Susan from the almost laughable atrocity of her body as she quickly dried off. The towel wrapped firmly around her, she stepped closer to the counter, running her hand briskly across the muggy glass of the mirror. Her reflection blinked back at her amidst the haze and she frowned, noticing something off about her face. She peered closer.

Her eyes, once a steady and frigid shade of blue, were turning green.

The color had already swamped most of the blue of her iris and continued to snake steadily around her pupil. A strong, fierce green. _What was this…_

Her gradually worsening panic was cut short suddenly by the faint sound of strange buzzing. Susan strained, listening hard before tucking the edge of the towel neatly under her arm and moving out into the hall. She was halfway down the corridor when she realized what it was and turning about, made her way to her bedroom. The flora she had produced long ago to keep her company rejoiced at her arrival, the vines unraveling themselves from the bedposts and the curtain rods and reaching for her in hello and the flowers opening their faces wide to smile at her. But she hesitated for a only a moment to return their welcome before striding straight for the bed. Gripping the underside of the mattress she lifted it easily and retrieved the cellular phone she had tucked there weeks ago.

It had stopped ringing by now but flipping it open, she found one message waiting. She opened it eagerly.

_St. Michael's. East & Clover. a.s.a.p. – Selina_

Susan blinked down at the message, her mind humming. Selina wanted to meet up, that much was obvious. But she hadn't outlined any necessity for calling Susan – just for Susan calling her in case there was trouble. She considered that perhaps the woman had misdialed. No, she was smarter than that especially with the state that the city was in; she could easily be tracked. If she were sending Susan a message she meant it and didn't want to mince words.

She considered heeding the call. She was more than willing to get some fresh air…she hadn't left the apartment since her last encounter with Selina. Not since her mother…the thought of taking to the streets harrowed her for there was no promise she wouldn't set out immediately to kill whoever crossed her path in a fit of retribution. And besides, Bane didn't have to say a word to let Susan know he wouldn't want her wandering about; his possessiveness was obvious enough.

_Bane_…

She felt something stir within her at the thought of him, a newfound resilience. She had found the answer to her own ennui, to the sudden and restless hatred she now harbored for the dingy taupe walls and the lonely echo of the apartment. Yes…a little fresh air would be good. What else was there to do anyway? Bane's laundry? She balked at the thought.

Glancing down at the message again, she put the address to memory before deleting the message and flipping the phone shut. She shed her towel and dressed quickly, moving about the room with a brisk excitement, her plants following closely at her heels like an expectant pet. She shooed them away as she turned to retrieve the cell phone and shove it into the back pocket of her jeans. Just in case.

"We're going to have an adventure today," she called to the quivering vegetation around her as she moved for the door. "Wish me luck," she cooed, stroking the soft white cheek of a nearby gardenia perched on the mantle of the fireplace. It sighed faintly in response and she left with a smile on her face, not caring enough to lock the door behind her.

The outside hallway was just as quiet and empty as the apartment and Susan hummed idly to the vaguely familiar tune in the elevator on her way down. She hesitated only momentarily when she reached the first floor as she was met with an eerie unconventional silence; the usual riot had settled to a low murmur of hushed voices. No court hearings today.

She moved coolly into lobby, glancing around for the first time at the high ceilings, the rich brown marble walls, and the wood paneled floors that at one time had perhaps shone impeccably with polish. They were now scattered with papers and splinters and the smudges of agitated footsteps. Here and there were overturned chairs and broken benches, odd pieces of office furniture dumped carelessly and mostly in pieces. It seemed the hearings held none of the order they boasted. Ironic. At the center of the atrium was a tower of sorts, stacked chairs and desks and filing cabinets. If she squinted she could just make out what looked like a gavel resting plainly on the desktop at the peak of the splintering mountain. The judge was obviously away.

The men, armed and otherwise, milling about the room grew quiet as she entered their midst and regarded her with a mix of emotions. Some with amusement, some with alarm. Some with silent respect. She bristled under their gaze and stared each of them down hard. They did not interfere as she moved for the glass doors of the building; either they were Bane's men or they were smart.

"You there!"

The voice rang out from across the room, echoing off the stone walls with crisp authority. She paused, her hand falling short of the door handle, and turned to face the fool who dared to object. The man was standing at the summit of the heap, his eyes trained on her location near the door.

"Approach the bench."

She stared at him for a moment, perplexed by his assumption; she began to laugh and yet she yielded to the stranger's absurd command, momentarily curious. Closer now she could see he was older, but not by much. The suit he wore had perhaps once been nice but was ragged now, torn here and there and patched roughly, stuffed with what looked like straw in the shoulders.

"Are you lost, sweetheart?" he called, turning slightly to sink into his perch at the desk. But when he glanced at Susan again, his smirk faltered and he seemed to recognize who she was. "Well…" he began almost breathlessly, gazing down at her, "To what do I owe the pleasure, Miss…Ivy, is it? Or do you prefer Poison?"

Susan smirked at the name, feeling almost ridiculous at the mention of it. "Who are you?"

"The honorable Judge Jonathan Crane," he announced proudly, adjusting his glasses primly. He leaned forward, peering over their silver rims. His eyes were almost as blue as hers had been… "But they used to call me Scarecrow…I prefer that actually…"

She stared up at him coolly, wondering for all its trouble why Gotham took so keenly to giving titles to its villains. "I've never heard of you."

He frowned and slouched in his chair, obviously disgruntled by his lack of infamy. "Well – the courts aren't in session today. No show to amuse you or your colossal beloved." In irritation, he plucked a few strands of straw from his jacket and flicked them aside, "Be on your way, won't you?"

She lingered a moment longer, somewhat amused by his frustration but then turned on her heel and moved decidedly back towards the door. She was mid-step through the doorway when he called out to her once more.

"So you don't deny it?" he jeered and from where she stood, she could just make out the cold smile on his face, "Your beloved?"

Susan left without another word and pretended she hadn't heard him.

To escape the silence, she hummed quietly to herself, some stupid tune oddly reminiscent of the song she'd heard earlier whining through the elevator speakers. The streets were quiet and she walked alone with her hands in her pockets and her hair tucked neatly in a braid she had fastened shortly after leaving city hall; there were few other commuters out and about then and only a few of them glanced at her with any interest. Even fewer allowed their eyes to linger on her as she passed. Whether in fear and recognition or simple curiosity she couldn't tell.

The ravenous flame that Bane had ignited within the city had diminished and the ashes, the ghosts of a seemingly righteous revolution, destruction, and decay languished openly in the streets. Shops that hadn't been elected as service stops for the mercenaries in Bane's army were boarded up and dark; the sidewalks were littered still with broken glass, trash, the odd and disturbing brown splotch of long-fermented blood; and although the citizens of Gotham had never been especially affable, people passed one another in silence, exchanging a sigh or perhaps a frown but nothing more than an unspoken solemnity. Susan observed their hopelessness and could not help but feel some stirring of pity…she had never really invested in Gotham. She had never really even considered it her home, having been exported here against her wishes. But there was something in the clear desolation that didn't require any sort of patriotism; the very air she breathed was rank with a palpable misery. So she kept herself from breathing too much of it.

The intersection of East and Clover was not so terribly far from City Hall and Susan reached her location at length, brightened by the exercise even for the dreary scenery. She stood before the church now, her cheeks flushed and her breath coming out in great white plumes. Susan had never been religious. The question of god or any higher power for that matter was rarely discussed in her household and when it was, it was addressed with the appropriate passion of two entirely empirical scientists. Their religion was a clinical thing. Susan was left to gleam what understanding she could through literature, through her travels, and through the fleeting compassion of her parents. It was not an acute education. No frenzies, no conversions, no visions.

The only churches she had ever seen up close were either the majestic, terrifying impressive cathedrals in the cities of foreign countries or the quaint, cobbled chapels that dotted their endless, green countryside. St. Michael's landed somewhere in the middle of the spectrum; neither remarkable nor charming. A simple brown stone face set with weathered oak doors. The stain glass windows that lined the body of the building were dim from the gray light and a jungle of unkempt and browning vegetation framed the entire church; Susan frowned at the decay and as she made her way toward the front doors, only after several long and cautionary glances down the street to make sure she had not been followed and was not presently being watched, she ran her hand along the dry, curled leaves that reached out to her from across the railing that lined the path; the life in her hands renewed them completely and for a moment, she felt their bright green faces sigh against her palm in relief before she was entering the church and closing the door behind her.

What Susan had expected was a quiet if not slightly disturbed scene of empty wooden pews and a modest altar of marble and felt carpeting. But instead she found herself in the middle of a much more dynamic energy. All but a few rows of pews had been torn up and pushed against a back wall and in the clearing, several tables had been erected along with a few scattered metal folding chairs. The tables were crowded with paper work and some miscellaneous computers and desk lamps. The untidy atmosphere suggested that the church's new occupants were keeping busy. Who they were and for what purpose, she couldn't tell. But the church – undeniably – looked like headquarters.

"Hello, Susan…nice to see you again."

The voice echoed dully on the musty air, calling Susan's attention over her shoulder. Selina moved forward into a square of bleary light pooling in from the window; she'd been standing just behind the door when she entered. The woman was dressed as usual and the intensity of her costume struck a sharp contrast with the mundane background of the church.

"Have any trouble finding the place?" she inquired lightly, flexing her hands in their leather gloves.

Susan shrugged one shoulder and slid her own hands from the pockets of her jacket. "Not much. I can say I know the city rather well."

"Do you?" Selina's red lips turned up in a smirk of unexpected malice. "I would think it hard to get familiar from way up there in your suite at City Hall."

She blinked, deciding to ignore the spiteful edge in the woman's voice. "If I recall correctly, there was a sense of urgency in your message."

Selina seemed to get the point. "Right," she exhaled sharply and promptly rose about whatever sourness she had begun with, "Welcome to headquarters. St. Michael's had been closed for years and we decided the place would give us the right amount of space and privacy."

"We?"

"We'll get to that later," she quipped, "For the sake of time – and confidentiality –I have to keep the details to a minimum. Unless of course you agree to my proposal."

Susan frowned with concern; she suddenly felt as if she had walked right into the headquarters of some counterrevolutionary operation bent on reclaiming their city from Bane. Brave, but incredibly stupid. She instantly regretted responding to Selina's message.

But the woman seemed to notice her change in composure. "If you think we're trying to resurrect the ABC café in this shithole, you're mistaken. I'm no idealist. Our little group would be better off joining forces with Bane than working to retake the city but…that doesn't mean we can't help the damage."

Susan did not respond, quietly measuring her words, and Selina took her silence as a signal to continue.

"Since the city fell and Bane gave Gotham permission to tear itself apart, the streets have changed. There's no cops to stop any of what's happening, no rules. The thugs don't even play by their own rules anymore. Bane may have the city under control, may have his men patrolling the streets but they're only there to reinforce the 'justice' where they see fit – which means it's survival of the fittest."

"I never pegged you for a philanthropist," Susan remarked idly.

"I'm adaptable," the woman replied coolly, "But I can't say the same for everyone else out there. The entire city is falling apart. Rolling black outs, gas and water shortages…what's more, the food shipments are just enough to keep the demand high and the people desperate."

"Desperate?" she echoed, her brow quirking in anxious interest.

"The other day, I saw two men fighting over a can of Spam," Selina replied flatly and Susan might've laughed if it weren't all so pathetic. Her momentary mirth vanished however at the other woman's expression of absolute grief. Her voice grew heavy with sorrow and Susan grew uncomfortable at her sudden show of emotion. "People are starving. And who knows how worse things might get when the real winter sets in. Nobody knows what to tell their children…"

There was a moment of silence in which the two women considered the gravity of her statement and Susan felt that same stirring of pity in the hollow of her chest; this time she wasn't quick to chase it away.

"The streets are my home," Selina continued, with a weary sigh, "And these people are the only family I've ever had. If I don't try to help them then they're left waiting for…" she trailed off suddenly and averted her eyes almost guiltily it seemed to Susan, "Some sort of savior."

She thought fleeting of the Batman and chewed thoughtfully on the inside of her cheek. "I'm not seeing precisely how I fit into all of this."

The declaration was innocent enough but her companion took it poorly. Her eyes flashed angrily and her gloves gave a quiet squelch as she clenched her fists fiercely. "Of course not," she sneered with derision, "How could you from your sweet view in City Hall? You'd never even dream that people, real people, were suffering with all that smoke in your eyes. Content to tend your garden and wait around for Bane to fuck you or maybe kill you."

The color rose up in Susan's face as the woman's hostility reared once again and she bristled not at the accusation but at the truth in it. It was enough to curb her tongue and keep her own anger at bay. Just enough. She couldn't deny the turn of her stomach at the woman's words so she glanced away furiously.

"You know you're not very good at this soliciting business. If you were you'd know you're not supposed to insult the person you're asking for help," she murmured, tapping her boot irately on the carpet.

Selina grew quiet; she looked rather sheepish at her sudden outburst and she shifted her weight from heel to another. "I haven't even told you what I want."

Susan fixed her with an expectant look, yielding to her patience for just a moment more.

"Well…as I said, people are starving…"

It took her only a moment to reach the obvious conclusion and she gave a loud snort of laughter at Selina's suggestion. "What? Do you want me to plant some community gardens? You've got to be fucking kidding me…"

The woman didn't even flinch.

"You can't be serious."

"But I am," Selina began, the solemnity returning to her voice in place of the ire, "These people need help in any small way we can manage. If you won't help out of some – freakish, abominable loyalty to Bane then fine, but –"

"I didn't say no, did I?" For the second time, the other woman found herself speechless. The two stared at each other, Selina half hopeful, Susan shifting in her indecision.

"No, I suppose you didn't," she observed and titled her head, slightly. Selina studied her for a moment as if searching her face for sound reason; she like everyone else in the whole damn city probably thought Susan was entirely subjected to some detestable allegiance for Bane. But she could care less about her reputation. There was something besides the pity stirring within her now…

Reaching for the phone in her pocket, Susan checked the time. She'd been gone for an hour or so and since it was her first excursion out into the streets, she didn't want to blow her cover completely. She'd no idea when Bane would be back but she decided not to chance it.

"I should be going," she murmured, tucking her phone away and her companion seemed to understand.

"You have my number," Selina replied, eyeing her hopefully but Susan was quick to brush past her, moving briskly for the door. She was worried that if she lingered any longer she might lose her nerve and turn the woman down flat for want of an answer. The door to St. Michael's slammed heavily behind her and she began again on her journey, curling her hands automatically back into her pockets and ducking her head against the chill.

On he r way home, she considered why she hadn't reject Selina entirely. What the woman had been suggesting was almost pathetic in its idealism. Growing crops for the starving citizens of Gotham…Christ, the notion grew more ridiculous as she turned it over in her mind. And why did Selina think they would even accept her support? Why should they trust a woman who was so quick to kill and who took company with Bane? And while it was true that Susan cared little for her reputation or her public opinion, there was always Bane himself to consider.

Susan couldn't be too sure but if he were to discover that she was allotting her time to assuage the suffering of the city he loathed so entirely, he might be a little upset. Perhaps enough to throw her off the terrace. The potential of his fury might have once been enough to scare her away entirely. But…

There was something in Selina's offer that struck her. It was strange almost…hadn't she just been complaining of her ennui? Of her unseemly and easy obedience? Here was the action she sought, the divergence she craved.

_Live with purpose…_

She felt her heart give a jolt at her mother's words. This was a purpose if she'd ever seen one…If she wouldn't help these people out of the fleeting goodness of her heart, then she would do it to flex her own power. Put herself to work. If Bane could claim the city with flame and ash, then perhaps she could reclaim it herself and allow it to flourish under her hand….

By the time she reached City Hall, the steps were crowded once more with lines of disheveled, wide-eyed citizens; it seemed the mercenaries had rounded up a few hundred for court hearings and as they barked their orders, the crowd shuffled feebly forward. The bevy of people watched her as she approached and continued to stare as she made her way around the building, opting instead for the backdoor. The air had suddenly grown foul with desperation but the shame she expected to feel was not entirely overpowering. She had resolution now and managed to muster some levity to fix her face with a half-smile as she boarded an elevator and ascended to the familiar hallway. The door to the apartment was unlocked and the parlor, mercifully, empty.

The main room was swamped with steadily darkening shadows, the dismal day growing ever dismal as evening arrived. Sighing wearily, she slipped out of her boots and kicked them against the sofa on her way to the bedroom. She was too busy undoing the braid at the nape of her neck to notice the open files sitting plainly beside the medicine kit on the kitchen counter.

The vegetation rustled against her legs like a friendly cat when she entered the bedroom and she glanced lovingly at them as she passed, shrugging out of her jacket and hanging it primly on one of the bedposts. The vines that reached for her and curled lovingly around her shoulders put her at ease and reaffirmed her decision to help Selina and her pet cause. At the end of the day…it was something to do. She could work out her reasoning later on.

So much for the cold and calculating Susan Isley.

_I'm in. _

Her fingers moved slowly over the keypad of the cell phone and she watched the little digital envelope of her affirmative message sail away into oblivion with a grim smile. She didn't bother to wait for a reply and had just returned the device to its hiding spot when her company announced his unexpected presence.

"Susan."

She started at the rumbling sound of her name and stifled a gasp as she turned to face him where he stood in the doorway.

"Bane," she murmured, clenching her fists tightly to steady herself. The flora retreated as he lumbered into the room, eyeing her over the lip of his mask.

"You've been out," he said simply, more of a statement than a question.

She smiled tightly. "Just around the block."  
"You lie."

He was close enough now that she could smell the musk of his sweat on the neck of his black t-shirt; close enough now to see the flush of activity in her cheeks and the wild light of her eyes. There was nothing she could say.

"But I don't care," he finished and his intention was clear in his eyes. Susan complied, all too eager to drop the conversation entirely.

"Long day at the office, dear?" she cooed duskily as he pulled her roughly into him. She softened under his hands, shivering as she felt his fingers smooth through her hair. Closing her eyes, she sighed into his neck and let him lay her down and her disquiet slipped away from her.


	15. Chapter 15

"Bane?"

Her voice came quietly from beside him where he lay prone upon her bed. He would have thought her sleeping softly still; although the light at the window suggested another drearily gray forecast, it was early and morning approached.

"We both know you don't sleep…"

Her briskness betrayed her despite her bleary tone and the slow, sleepy roll of her vowels; she must have been awake for some time. He felt her shift against his arm and suddenly her face loomed before him, painted with blue shadow. Undaunted by his own feeling, here in the comfort of darkness, he reached over to touch her; the skin of her cheek was warm from the pillow and soft with satisfaction.

"What is it, Susan?" he asked finally, his mask crackling with the effort to maintain a whisper.

"Who is Talia?"

He paused. His hand fell away from her face, his fondness quickly receding. The nerves in his mind, deadened by sleep and pleasure, began to fire once more; the question struck him with an incredible and inexplicable uneasiness that confused him the further he entertained it. He would not have it

"That is none of your business," he replied dryly and glanced away from her face and the searching look of her eyes. To his great displeasure, and most expectantly, she pressed on.

"You know I won't settle for that." He did, surely.

"Then get used to disappointment," he answered and the bed groaned as he sat up abruptly, brushing away her hand resting on his bare chest. He was almost angry with her for spoiling the regular mood of the morning and the emotion bothered him enough to force him from the idea of settling next to her once more. But when he tried to move, however, he found himself unable.

He jerked back the sheets impatiently and stared down at his legs, suddenly frozen with surprise. It seemed that in the night, Susan's vines had gotten friendly and curled themselves tightly around his legs, binding him to the bed. Growling, he ripped them away, the thick rubbery stems snapping like twine beneath his hand. Susan gave a painful gasp as though he had struck her and glancing at her, he found her face creased in embarrassment as she looked down at the broken vines as if she had done something shameful.

Bane understood at once and for a moment, his gaze softened. Her display of affection, even unconscious, was plain and absolute….he was nearly resolved to drop the matter of her inquiry entirely until once more she struck up no longer preoccupied by her fluster.

"Bane, I know she's been here," she accused, sitting up to stare at him squarely; the sheets fell away at her nakedness and neither of them flinched. "And I know she doesn't like me…"

He turned from her and began to dress, setting his sights for the door. But he very much doubted that simply leaving the room would dissuade the conversation.

"Does she know you're fucking me?"

The statement struck him so harshly, he actually paused, his hands poised over his belt buckle. It was suddenly all too visceral when she said it like that. Without any finesse. It was true he had not given much thought to his affairs with Susan. She was not his lover. Such a title would diminish her and he was smart enough not to mention the endearment aloud. He could not deny, however, that there was something…curiously correct in the matter. It did not follow any logical cue and yet he had not hurried himself to find a reason for his own submission. To know might perhaps be more dangerous than to remain blissfully ignorant and resign simply to the heat of it all…._fucking_…the word seemed wrong…

But he did not allow himself to slip. When he turned to face her, his face was fixed with a scowl. He would betray nothing. Even to her.

"If you know so much, Susan" he murmured darkly, "Then you must know she has ordered me to kill you. I think I might have to if you do not forget the subject."

Susan didn't blink. "You never gave her an answer."

His mind blanched. _How could she have…_"I would do what is necessary to protect my interests," he insisted and without another glance, in fear of revealing his own bewilderment, he moved for the door. The vegetation growing along the cracks in the floorboards shrunk away from his step, aware now of the violence of his strength; their creator, however, only advanced after him.

She must have found some amusement in his pledge of loyalty for she was laughing; the sound was low and wicked, nearly inhuman in pitch, and it was almost enough to make him stop. "I'd like to see you try," she purred and Bane felt her hand slip sensuously up and along the puckered flesh of his spine.

A jolt of ecstasy rushed through him with such swift force that he gasped. More of that horrible mirthful noise floated out onto the air and enraged, he whirled around with half a mind to snap the little bones in her hand completely when suddenly he found himself overtaken. Susan's vines had struck, sensing his spiteful intentions, although fleeting, and coming to her defense. These were thicker than the undergrowth on the bed and they wound themselves around his arms and legs with a fierce strength. When he flexed or attempted to force his way from his bonds, he was met with the keen sting of thorns and poison.

It seemed Susan's good nature had left her. He no longer had the physical advantage. Not in her territory.

She approached him, her hands on her hips, her posture proud and powerful. Bane beheld her fully then and could not help but yield to amazement. With her hair properly wild, her naked body standing as a marble monument to command, her eyes gleaming green, glaring at him coolly, the vines…the vines, twisting and curling and slithering about her, around her waist and through her hair…why, she could have been Mother Nature herself.

She _was.._

For nearly the hundredth time in her presence, he found himself absolutely speechless and taken with awe. She paid no attention to his silence, studying him keenly as if to decide what to do with him. A moment ago she had seemed content to fling him from the roof but he knew her anger was just as fleeting as her affection and shallower still. He decided to embrace a bit of levity, if it might only lessen her grip.

"Susan, dear" he wheezed under the constriction of the vines, "You've gone and ruined the mood completely."

A small smile jerked at the corner of her lips. Her vines gave a final squeeze and he groaned but was relieved as the blood rushed back into his limbs and he was allowed a deep, satisfying breath. They regarded each other for a moment in the wake of their momentary antagonism. Susan's eyes flittered over the blistering red flesh of his arms and shoulders and the welts beginning to swell there and her grin widened.

"Be sure to put something on that, darling" she cooed gently and turned to fish something to wear from the bureau against the wall.

He was sure to keep his voice level, betraying none of his idle amusement. He watched her as she dressed. "To training then?"

"I would think you've had enough," she murmured, brushing past him coolly and the smell of her as she passed was enough to settle a smile on his face.

He wiped away a bit of blood that was trickling down his arm. "We could always settle for just breakfast," he called as she began down the hallway. The clear, affirmative sound of laughter rang after her and resolved once more to the ordinary – whatever that meant – he turned to follow her into the kitchen, content for now to let her have her way. He refused to linger long on the reason why.

The call came in the late afternoon. Bane had long made his departure for God knows where, leaving Susan once more to the solitude of the apartment. Not that she minded. Although the rest of the morning had been civil, even pleasurable at that, their momentary sparring along with his unexpected surrender left her thoroughly unnerved. It was not often that she could afford the upper hand without some sort of retaliation and she had spent the near-entirety of the morning waiting for his counter-strike with baited breathe, her fists clenched. At his every affable word, she suspected an insult. At his every gesture, a keen slap.

But he had donned his coat around noon, well-fed and refreshed, and left to attend to other duties. He hadn't said a word to her when he took his departure. It was merely a familiar hand on her hip and the soft pull of his fingers in her hair and then he was gone. Susan forced herself not to linger on it.

She had showered and dressed, unconcerned with starting her day well into the morning, and had just settled onto the couch for a sweet and numbing episode of daytime television when there came a familiar buzzing from down the hall. She was quick to attend to it and caught it on the final ring to find another message, detailing a different address. Frowning, her mind worked to figure the street names and numbers. This location was on the other side of the city from St. Michael's, although equal distant from City Hall. She considered the possibility for error once more but resolved that whatever changes Selina had made were for security purposes. She had never met a woman more cautious. And for good reason.

Pocketing the cell phone and snatching up her coat, she made briskly for the door and the elevators beyond. She found the lobby in its usual state of chaos and disarray and opted as she usually did for the back entrance. She thought fleetingly of "Judge" Crane she had met previously. Strange, impudent fellow.

Of course, it was the first acquaintance she had made in perhaps a month now. The thought startled her and checked her brisk pace as she turned onto the sidewalk, leaving City Hall behind her. No wonder she had grown so fond of Bane…the man had forced their cohabitation and their companionship had just followed naturally. Susan hadn't been exposed to any other intelligent life forms – Barsad excluded – since her capture. And now how could anyone compare…? She had never been an especially sociable woman and what few friends she kept, she kept at arm's length. A picture of Yves flashed suddenly across her mind and the melancholy of it was enough to crease her face with grief. Softened now as she was by nature and by the compassion, though fleeting, that it allowed her, she could admit now that her old indifference did more to harm the ones she loved than to keep her suitably secure.

Before she could give it the appreciation it so deserved, her old life had slipped through her fingers and she had watched it disappear altogether like a ribbon on the wind. It was lost to her now, she often mused with the same somber resignation; the places, the people, the life itself.

Distracted by her thoughts, she nearly missed her destination. Coming to a stop in front of the building and craning her neck to inspect its face, she made sure of the number and rechecked the address for good measure. What the location lacked in the way of St. Michael's almost charming decrepitude, it made up for in absolute luxury. It was an apartment complex and except for a few broken windows, a tattered flag, and a couple of mottled, browning shrubs guarding the door, it maintained an appearance of stateliness. The surrounding buildings were of a similar high style, characteristic of the neighborhood; Susan noted that Ninth street wasn't too far. Her dim mood steadily worsening at the thought, she lowered her gaze from the building and began inside.

The place was as empty as she expected and the instruction that Selina had sent directed her to the administrative offices. The power in the complex was out, fallen victim to the sweeping blackouts and energy shortages, and Susan found she could hardly make her way for the low light. She was thankful when she found the correct door and slipped into the office with a sigh of relief.

She was immediately apprehended. The hands were upon her at once, pulling, prying, searching. She hadn't the time to assemble a proper defense and could only struggle uselessly, looking about wildly for a recognizable face.

"Don't be too rough with her now. We need her in good spirits."

The familiar voice came from the opposite side of the room and glancing around, Susan locked eyes with Selina – this time without the security of her mask or her custom suit. The woman was dressed just as casually as she was with her hair pulled away from her face. She watched coolly as the three guards, who Susan presumed were her comrades, continued their search.

"I can assure you I'm not carrying," Susan remarked irritably, "I don't need a _weapon._" She pronounced the word with condescension.

Selina smiled. "That may be. But I'm sure you understand procedure. We can't be sure just because you gave me your word."

"So I can assume the change in location was for security?" she mused as the hands finished their work and the guards stepped away, almost disappointed by her innocence.

The woman drew nearer. "You catch on quick. That's good." She nodded to her comrades and they quit the room almost immediately. Susan was reminded vaguely of the practiced obedience of Bane's men. She smiled at them as they went and they regarded her with the utmost contempt.

"They don't seem to like me much," she commented dryly, straightening her coat which they had disturbed with their prying.

Selina's expression was entirely serious, bereft of her typical smirk. "To them you're nothing but a terrorist." The statement struck Susan more than she would care to admit and stirred within her an incomprehensible guilt; the emotion was nauseating enough to nearly convince her to quit this whole business at once. But the light in Selina's eyes shifted suddenly, shining with a new and obstinate resilience, and she allowed herself to be persuaded once more.

"Shall we go prove them wrong?" She did not wait for Susan to reply to her suggestion but strode simply for the door and Susan stepped after her, moving beyond her own comprehension once more. "Although," she quipped almost as an afterthought as they began their procession down the hallway, "You don't strike me as someone who cares much for popular opinion. Which begs the question," Selina drew pause and Susan nearly collided with her back, "Why did you come back? Why bother?"

She gave the only answer she could. "I'm not sure."

This must have been enough for the woman, however, for she began once more with a brisk nod leading her companion down a long corridor that eventually deposited the both of them into a large courtyard in the center of the apartment complex. What had once been the lobby, outfitted with luxurious furniture and waxy potted plants, was now converted into free and convenient space for the new "tenants". The plush leather sofas and arm chairs, if not otherwise occupied, were pushed up against the walls or ruined completely from the fall out; the place was cluttered with odd bits and belongings, stolen swag, and loose debris that cheapened the gold-leaf pattern of the carpet below their feet.

The apartments overlooked the courtyard and people here and there leaned over the banisters to peer down at them as they passed. Susan bristled under the many pair of eyes and could almost feel their hatred, their suspicion, their fear…Selina led her to the center of the room where a group of people were congregated around what looked like a wide rectangular box.

"She's here," Selina announced and when the crowd turned to meet them she saw that the box was filled with neatly packed soil. They were prepared, she would give them that much. Selina's arrival was acknowledged with a few friendly nods and even a reverent smile but she felt their dislike almost immediately. It was a concentrated revulsion that entirely perplexed her; it did nothing however to weaken her confidence. The box of soil meant that these people would accept aid even by her hand. It was as simple as that. For now.

"Well," began a man at the head of the group, young, with bitter lines creasing his brow, "She's been searched?"

Susan couldn't help the sneer as it stole over her face. "Please, by all means, continue as if I'm not here. The others did a rather thorough job, but if you would prefer I strip and expose my ulterior motives to the lot of you say the word."

They seemed stunned by her sudden sharp outburst and the man looked almost mortified at her suggestion. He gave a curt nod, glanced desperately at Selina, and then stepped aside. The others followed and the two women approached the box at the center of their congregation.

"Do you think you have all that you need?" Selina asked quietly, "We cleared the atrium. Thought it might help with the sunlight…"

She followed her upward gesture and saw indeed that the new tenants had unfastened a small square of glass panes from the ceiling allowing for a wider, stronger stream of sunlight to pour into the lobby. The forecast of the day provided little substantial sunlight but Susan could see that on more fortunate days the planter box would receive an adequate amount.

"It will do for now," she responded and tried to sound as grateful as she could, "Expansion will be necessary. You know that."

Selina nodded. There was a brief pause of silence as they considered the prospect. "I'll leave you to it then," she murmured finally and stepped away to take her place beside a small group of anxious bystanders. There was no use urging the suspense. With a sigh, Susan took her place at the head, staring down the length of the box, rubbing her palms together thoughtfully as she readied herself for the task.

She hadn't had time to do much research what with the anxiety of the morning and Selina's unexpected summons. But as always, she began with what she knew. The faces around her watched anxiously, doubtfully, blankly…she cast them all from her mind as she held out her hands over the box, her palms prone. The seedlings there hummed with energy, with life, and with a gentle touch she sprinkled them into the soil. She walked the length of the planter, depositing the seeds without much precision; they would grow where they could on her command.

At the head of the box, she closed her eyes at last and positioned her hands above the soil once more. She concentrated. On the light, on the earth, on the energy building within her…her pulse began to quicken – and she thought suddenly of Bane. It was enough. The crowd around her gasped as the thick sound of roots and cracking soil filled the quiet air as the seeds began to sprout rapidly. Sturdy shoots shot up through the dirt and matured brilliantly before them, budding with green leaves and then pale pink flowers. A hush of wonder fell over the crowd when the plants gave their first sign of fruit.

And all within the space of a minute.

Susan would even have surprised herself if not for her newfound concern. Why had she thought of Bane, in the midst of her creation? And why had the thought of him pushed her to wring life from the soil? _Why_…_how_…? The silence of the lobby was uncomfortably broken by a few scattered applause and some shocked echoes of laughter and Susan suddenly, terribly wished to be alone. She started when she felt the hand on her arm. Selina appeared beside her.

"Brilliant," she noted simply and she was thankful for her brevity, "You'll do more of course? We can't subsist on this."

Susan watched as the crowd began to gather, picking the tree freely for its fruit. The sight drove her to an abruptly overpowering and possessive fury. Up until now she had created for the sake of creation and the flora had been hers and hers alone. And then to see these people, these strangers take freely from _her_ vines...their open display of desperation was nearly revolting, their greed, their –

A sudden tug at her sleeve pulled her from her scornful thoughts.

"Thank you," came a small voice at her side and glancing down she saw a child. Pale, skinny, and very afraid. Her little hand was clutching Susan's sleeve and the sight of it was enough to immediately drive away her hatred. In fact, looking at the child, she felt ashamed by it.

"The flowers you made were pretty," said the child and let her little hand fall down by her side. She smiled at this and kneeled down beside her, feeling the energy building in her hands once more. "You smell nice," the little one tittered absently and then gasped as Susan produced a perfect white daisy. The child reached for it tentatively her eyes wide and bright and then plucking it up, tucked it neatly behind her ear.

Her little mouth had popped open once more to say thank you when her mother appeared, a shadow crossing above them. "Come along," she muttered sternly and took the child by the hand. Susan looked up into her face. Creased with worry and disgust. She felt her stomach turn. The little girl gave a cheerful wave and went on her way, happy and oblivious.

She got to her feet with a weary sigh, turning away from the crowd, the desire to be alone building within her once more. Selina seemed to notice her discomfort. She'd seen the child.

"Come back to the office, Susan" she murmured, casting one final glance around the lobby before turning to leave. She followed after the woman and it wasn't until the door to the office was closed neatly behind her did she allow herself to breathe. The tension in the lobby had been nearly palpable. She felt like a bug under a microscope...

_Why did she feel like this…why did she care…why was she _here?

"I admire you," Selina began, lowering herself into a chair by the window. The comment surprised her and she sunk into the chair opposite. "All those people out there…I would've left by now."

She shrugged coolly. "I was expecting torches and pitchforks, so to be honest this is all a bit of a let down."

Selina smiled, crossing her arms tightly across her chest. "In all honesty, you could leave now and I wouldn't judge you."

There was a heavy pause and she shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She was half-tempted to leave as it was and Selina was only making it worse. She couldn't leave…not now. The thought of Bane lingered close in the back of her mind. She pushed him away abruptly. No. Not him. He couldn't matter...

"Stop saying that," she murmured, her face pinched with unease. "I made my choice. I chose my purpose. Now, please, don't mention it again."

Her severity surprised Selina, who could only nod in response. She seemed to understand her difficulty. She unnerved her, this woman, who seemed to read her so well. Perhaps in a different time, in different circumstances they might've been friends. But now they could only be allies.

Susan rose from her seat, needing a change of pace. She silently resolved herself, thinking of her encounter with the child. She was the only reason she was back at the door. Selina looked to her hopefully and she smiled tightly.

_Live with purpose._

_Purpose._

The work was exhausting. The weight of the afternoon wore heavily on her shoulders and in the soles of her feet as she made her way up the white-wash stone steps of City Hall. The place was deserted. It was past curfew and there'd been no one on the streets. Susan had walked home alone and in the dark; she feared she had stayed too late.

Bane would surely be home by now, waiting for her like a disgruntled jealous husband – no. Again she shoved the thought brusquely from her mind as she moved briskly through the atrium and called and boarded an elevator. _Home_. Ha. In the apartment or otherwise, she wasn't afraid of Bane or his reaction. Even for the dull ache in her hands, in her bones, she knew she could settle him.

Regardless, she readied herself as the lift began to ascend.

It was in vain. She found the apartment empty and devastatingly silent. She walked through the parlor, the hallway, each of the rooms, turning lights on and off. Bane was no where to be found. Her relief was hesitant, however, and she could not help but wonder where he was as she settled into her room and began to undress. When her thoughts began to ring of worry, she pushed them away once more.

Her work had worn her out, something she hadn't expected. Before, her creation, her playful invention had been child's play. Growing large amounts of crops and nourishing plots of sustainable food sources had taken much more effort, more concentration. The maturation process had been hurried and their fruition nearly mutated she was so pressed by the crowds hungry, greedy stares. It would take time, she supposed, for even that sort of work to feel like routine.

Selina, even for her own seriousness, had been helpful bringing water, giving her time to rest when her pride buckled and she would admit to the weight of the work. But even for the aches and the needling pain in the back of her head, she had finished feeling right, almost proud. Her powers correctly and absolutely exercised. She hadn't felt so potent in weeks, months, perhaps her entire life…

Destruction came so easily. She could kill without so much as batting an eyelash. Red and green…blood and vines. What did it matter? To take a life. But to create life…that was something else entirely…

She went about the apartment in what she called her pajamas. Fetched something to eat. Milled about the parlor. Read a chapter or two of a nearby book. Even managed to sit still long enough to catch an hour of television. But she was restless. She was tired but she could feel energy left in her. As if a part of her had reserved, ready for the man who still had not shown…

It was nearly midnight. She was staring at the front door. She was waiting. She had been waiting. Anxiously at that. She felt the old fury twitch within her.

"Fuck you," she spat and retreated, thoroughly abashed, to her bedroom. She cursed him. She cursed herself for being so…she couldn't name it. But she felt desperate for wanting Bane. After she had spent nearly the entire afternoon and much of the evening helping the very people he was trying to destroy; she couldn't tell him, couldn't show him what she'd done, and yet she wanted him. She wanted him here. And she hated it all.

She put herself to bed, furling her fists in the sheets, wringing out her worry and her hatred. The bed was cold against her bones and her sleep was uneasy. She did not dream.


	16. Chapter 16

He was gone for three days.

Three days of silence. Three days of an ache she couldn't place, rolling in the hollow of her chest. Susan fell into listlessness, resigning herself to the apartment; she moved aimlessly from room to room, picking up meaningless tasks to distract herself. She couldn't leave the apartment – she wouldn't. She knew with an annoying fretfulness as soon as she set foot from City Hall, he would return. It didn't matter. The phone never rang. Not once.

Her moods did nothing to put her at ease, shifting erratically with the hour and worsening whenever she pondered the whereabouts of her only companion. The most he had ever left her was a week. Three days was nothing…she tried to displace her worry when she could not define it. It occurred to her that he might in fact be dead and that some idiot somewhere in the city had valiantly and abruptly ended this entire mess. The thought was a harrowing one and made her throat swell uncomfortably…whenever it arose, she put the thought promptly from her mind.

She toiled in her confliction, going back and forth between hating him and hating herself. For once, her solitude betrayed her. The empty rooms held no solace. The silence quaked mockingly, deafeningly. The flora withered and fell away, the heads of the flowers bowed with sullen thirst. She could feel _herself_ withering in his absence.

The first night she had stayed awake, alert, waiting. Waiting for the bed to shift beside her in the dark, waiting for the familiar warmth and weight of his body. Her eyes were red when they finally closed at dawn, her head heavy with defeat. The second night was the same. When she curled herself under the sheets after the third day, what feeble hope that she'd kept flickering within her was extinguished completely. Her mind was gray, tired, empty. She turned her face into the pillow and forced herself to resign to the darkness, her care worn thin.

So when she felt the hand snaking under the covers, she did not react. Not at first. Just an imagined itch...the warm calloused fingers closed around the bend in her knee. The hand inched higher. She was awake now, fully alert, sitting up in bed. And he was there, _at last, _sitting beside her as if he had been there all along. How long he had been there, how long he had been watching her fitful sleep she didn't care.

For a minute she sat quite still, blinking dumbly at him in the darkness, drowning in the chasm of silence between them. Her mind was half-sodden with sleep but her reaction was immediate and violent. She felt herself give into her desire and it didn't entirely repulse her.

"You bastard," she hissed and clutched at him, winding herself around him. He sighed against her, her name a familiar melody on his lips, and then she knew that he was not a dream, a nightmare, a fever. He was very real and his intentions were clear. His hands were everywhere and she leaned into his touch, shivering at their brusque warmth. She frowned, suddenly aware of the wetness of his fingers and his palms. Reaching up, her hands skimming over the expanse of his chest and the rough material of his flak jacket, she felt it there too. And then she smelt it.

Iron. It was blood. He was covered in blood. Her stomach turned.

"No, stop" she clipped, twisting herself out of his grasp, "I can't do this. It's everywhere. There's blood everywhere…"

Susan could feel him staring down at her in the darkness, as if waiting on her command. It took all the strength imaginable to pull her from that bed, starved as she was for his nearness. But Bane followed when she padded out into the hall, moving for the bathroom, silent as ever.

Pausing just within the doorway, she sent the warm light of the bathroom spilling out into the hall. Bane's shadow passed across the mirror and along the tiles. He was close behind her, pressing at her back. She stifled the urge to turn into him once more. The small space filled with the sound of running water as she began to fill the clean sink basin.

"Undress," she murmured, briskly fetching a hand towel from the rack. He went obediently to sit on the edge of bathtub, peeling off his jacket and shirt as he went. She watched as he folded them neatly and set them aside, half stunned by his easy submission. Judging from the blood on his person, however, she didn't figure that he was in much of a position to fight.

The sight of him was clearer now with the light. The blood was not all his, she realized, relief passing over her in an awesome wave. Great swatches of red were spread across his chest and down the length of his arms and little droplets speckled his mask and his forehead, shining wetly in the light. Save for a few bright scratches curving along the side of his neck, he was unharmed.

Wetting the towel in her hand, she went to work wiping the blood away and cleaning his unimpressive battle wounds. He remained silent, staring up at her calmly and relaxing under her ministrations; his breathing was a low rumble, echoing, crackling around them in the small room. To Susan he did not appear as a man fresh from battle. But she did not press him for details, merely languishing in his newfound presence. She almost dared to admit that she was….happy.

Happy even to be wiping away the blood of his victims.

It was sick. But it was them. And she was glad for it.

She was ringing out the towel and mopping up the watery blood she had dribbled on the counter, when he finally spoke.

"What?"

She paused, blinking down at him. "What?"

"No furious inquisition? No biting commentary?" he teased quietly, resting his cheek against her hand and staring up at her.

She shrugged lightly, allowing only the ghost of a smirk to pass over her lips as she peered down at firmly. What would he tell her? Did she care? She decided she didn't and turned away to return the towel to the rack to dry. He moved deftly, lessening the space between them with a single stride. The sudden warmth of his chest against her back caused her breath to hitch in her throat.

"You missed me."

It was not a question. Bane was sure of the answer but saw fit to taunt her with the truth of the matter anyways – she could almost see that familiar playful flicker of light in his gray eyes. There was really no use denying it any longer. She had. A few more days, a few more hours even and…she shuddered to think of her own desperate madness, looming over her, following her from room to room, curling against her back as she slept...

"How much?"

The question tore her sharply away from her thoughts. She felt the heat rise up in her face and let herself be lost to it. His breath beat a warm, heady rhythm against the curve of her neck and his hands were curled at the edge of her shirt, pulling almost impatiently.

_How much?_

She showed him.

0000

"You are still curious?"

His chest heaved with the rumble of his voice, tickling the shell of her ear. Susan grinned wryly and shuddered once more, weak with the last echoes of heat and bliss.

"One moment, please" she sighed, the luster of her voice strained with mild irritation, "Before you go and spoil the mood." But she rose nonetheless, gently sliding herself from him and settling instead at his side. With a toss of her head she sent a wave of her red hair crashing down across his chest. His fingers took to it immediately.

"Proceed," she chirped blithely and bound the covers around her.

"Very well," he began, shifting beneath her for comfort, "The other day Barsad and his comrades informed me of a small uprising. Some thirty or so rebels on the outskirts of the city. Stealing and selling rations, weapons…they even managed to kill some of my men."

Susan frowned, thinking of Selina. "Who were they?"

"Does it matter?" he murmured, trailing his hand along the nape of her neck. "They were a rowdy and unorganized group of upstarts…they have been taken care of. An example for the others…"

"Would you kill anyone who stood in your way?" She stared at him, her green eyes bearing hard into his face. Her lips twitched, waiting for his reply.

He did not flinch. "Absolutely."

She turned her face away and laid her check solemnly against his chest, reminded once more of just who was in her bed. She could still smell the blood on him…and yet she could hear his heart, a very human heart, thrumming beneath his warm flesh. Part of her almost wished things were as certain as they had been. Certainly villain. Or certainly lover. He would refuse to make a choice, she knew, now that he had had her. There could be no going back.

But still she wondered and still she tried to put her confusion from her mind.

She figured for now – she would have him one way or the other.

After a brief silence, filled only with the faraway tick of the hall clock and Bane's low mechanical breathing, she spoke again. "Anyone, eh? Men, women…children?" She thought fleetingly of the child and the flower and felt her chest tighten suddenly; she was glad he could not see her face or he would read the apprehension clearly in her eyes.

He hesitated a moment as if struck by her question. "No…I would never kill a child."

Susan tilted her head to look up at him, just in time to catch a glimpse of the tender and ancient light in his eyes. _A child_…he blinked and it vanished, stifled by the cold gray.

"Did you ever have a child, Bane?"

The question sounded ridiculous and harrowed the silence of the room, hanging between them awkwardly. Susan hadn't meant much by it. She was only curious. But the look on his face startled her…it was the first time she had ever seen him _ill at ease_.

"No."

She figured it was all he could manage without throwing her from the bed. His body grew tense and his skin taught beneath her touch but she did not withdraw her hand. He would suffer her curiosity, she decided. And so she let the question hang heavily in the air. The quiet seemed to smother them. When at last he seemed to relax and his fingers returned to her hair, she went on.

"I don't think I can have children," she stated plainly, tracing a small sickle shaped scar on his chest with the tip of her nail, "The transformation was too much for my body…" It was true. She had suspected it for some time. Bane and she had never bothered to be safe in bed because there was no danger. The gradual mutation of the chemical and molecular makeup of her body had left her completely barren.

Susan had never especially wanted children, content with her life as an independent working woman and yet…it would have been nice, she mused somberly, to have a little girl of her own. In many ways, a child would have meant redemption. It would have meant true creation, that didn't kill or destroy, removed from all this destruction…

"Congratulations," Bane muttered, "That must give you some relief."

The terse cruelty of his voice caught her like a slap to the face. She blinked dumbly in the light of it. The tenderness of the mood and the moment was lost. Keeping her face turned from him, she moved away to curl up on the other side of the bed. The vines at the edge of the mattress quivered with concern and she felt them coil against her legs, kind, comforting. Tears burned at the corners of her eyes and she turned her face into the pillow. Again, always, she wouldn't let him see her cry.

A moment of silence passed between them before he realized what he had done. Bane sighed heavily, the grill of his mask crackling with the forlorn sound, and he mumbled her name like an apology. The bed shifted and shrieked with his weight as he turned towards her and Susan did not flinch when she felt his arm around her waist. She put up a pitiful resistance as he dragged her back across the mattress and she did not struggle when he held her tight to his chest. He did not turn her around to face him. He would respect her moment of weakness just as she had respected his.

Her tears faltered, moved into stillness by his sudden, if not brusque, affection. She allowed herself to settle against him and nestled her head in the crook of his neck, paying no mind to the muzzle of the mask pressing into the crown of her skull.

"I…" he began, his voice heavy and unsure. He drew pause for a moment more as if searching for the right word, the gentle word. "I am sure you would have made an excellent mother."

Susan smiled, quietly amused by his uncertainty. He wasn't one for apologies. "And you an excellent father," she murmured and placed her hand on his around her waist.

His chest rumbled with a small laugh. "Perhaps."

Silence once more. Entirely less tense. Susan was thankful for it. She swallowed the last of her soreness and left her sadness on the edge of the bed; there was no room for it in his arms, as surely as he held her. Their breathing became slow and even and her mind dimmed as the minutes wore on and the nighttime dwindled beyond the window. The moon shone in through a slit in the thick canvas curtains and cut each of them in half where they lay on the bed with thin silvery light.

"Go to sleep," he murmured softly and she obliged, turning into him and away from the white and all-seeing eye of the moon. She looked up into his face and what she saw there caught the sigh in her chest and stilled her heart in fearful disbelief.

He gazed down at her face, masked in darkness, and could not see her fear. But by the light she could see him quite plainly. The sweet glow in his eyes and the calm arc of his pale forehead; the soft, smooth wax of his skin and the compliance in his breath…none of his words could speak for the way he looked or the way he was looking at Susan. She lay defenseless to the warmth in his eyes as he stared down at her in his own moment of weakness. She couldn't bring herself to admit what it was his silence so clearly assumed. It was too real and too terrifying.

She shut her eyes tightly and tried to press herself into a deep and forgetful sleep. But she was fitful. Roiling in the quiet and the blue shadow and the truth between them. Listening to the sound of his breathing and wishing she had not seen that terrible, awful, beautiful light in his eyes and known exactly what it meant.

Near dawn, she slipped, exhausted, into a dream.

Before her, mountains climbed in the lavender air, gray and ancient and riddled with snow. The haze was thick about her head. Wet air and the smell of flowers. Glancing over her shoulder she found a sea of marigolds, golden heads bobbing drowsily with a whisper of wind she could not feel; their bright yellow faces were flecked and stippled with drops of blood. The stench of wet iron mixed with the sweet aroma of the flowers, lilting in the breeze and curling against her skin.

She became suddenly aware of a faint clicking, rattling up from the palms of her hands which hung numbly by her sides. The air quivered. She raised her hands to look at them and instead of the green seedlings smiling up at her, she found _teeth_. Small, white, pearls of calcium bone buried in the thin and weathered skin of her palms. Without much thought, she pushed them up and through her skin and bubbling with blood, they dropped from her flesh and into the grass at her feet. The ground began to swell with new growth.

Susan knelt elegantly and dug her hands into the soil. She grew excited and began to dig fiercely, the mud crumbling beneath her feverish fingers. And then – she found it. Curled in the dirt, speckled with red clay and sand and loose seeds.

A child.

An infant.

Pale and pathetic and silent. Staring with dark eyes, eyes as gray as the mountains…

She wiped the child's face and cupped it in her hands, peering down through the mist. Another pair of hands appeared to clasp her own. Large, cold, monstrous hands…clean fingernails, thick wrists, freckled knuckles…familiar hands. His thumb thrummed tenderly against hers. The child stirred beneath their touch and opened its pink mouth to wail silently. The color in the air began to bleed.

She looked up into the face before her and found herself very suddenly wide awake. The sweat was heavy on her brow and the heat of the body breathing, beating behind her brought her ever further into reality. The sun was in the window and sleep had left her entirely. She stared into light, wanting to burn the dream from behind her eyes, until they began to spark and water with tears. She wept for the horror and the cruel beauty of it all with no heed of the man sleeping soundly beside her.

**A/N Not entirely lengthy or action packed I know. But the intimacy and silence in this one is entirely necessary! The next chapters will be more dynamic. Thank you to those who continue to read/comment. Hugely appreciated! **

**xoxo**


	17. Chapter 17

"Tomatoes…carrots…potatoes…Susan, what the hell is this?"

The edge in Selina's voice drew Susan away from her cataloging. She glanced from the woman's mildly frustrated expression to the leafy bright green vegetable sprouting from the box planter at her feet.

"It's bok choy." No response. "Chinese cabbage?"

Selina rolled her eyes as she knelt to pencil in the exotic name on the small cardboard sign that was stuck in the soil beside the plant. "Of course it is. Silly me."

"It's nutritional," she muttered, turning back to the desk, "I was a vegetarian long before I became the vegetable. Do give me some credit."

"You can sprout flowers from your ears – I give you all the credit I can afford."

Susan laughed in spite of herself. "Not quite."

The women returned to their work and a silence, at once both professional and comfortable, fell over the small office. By now the apartment complex and the offices within were almost familiar since Susan had come to work so frequently over the past three weeks or so. At their reunion, Selina had apologized for her lack of communication. As it turned out, her reason was the same as Bane's: the rebel group. But while he had been out to destroy, Selina and her comrades had kept a low profile so to avoid similar retribution. But now, there was work to do.

Selina had equipped her with a map, detailing the most destitute of neighborhoods, those most in need of their assistance. The chart was a ruddy, wrinkled thing marked and remarked and criss-crossed with arrows and Xs. It made Susan dizzy to look at it but thankfully Selina was able to make sense of it for her. The black markings meant safe zones, where citizens were able to manage some mobility and assembled to share and trade goods when the mercenaries cheated them out of proper rations of food and supplies. The red areas – which, Susan noted, swamped most of the map like giant bloody stains – were danger zones or "no fly zones" as Selina called them. These were the areas in Gotham most populated by Bane's men and where his power was most prevalent. Rules and regulations were strict, harshly and unexpectedly enforced; curfew was earlier and the citizens unfortunate enough to be living in those areas were only just surviving.

It was harrowing. From high in the apartment, with what little she had witnessed in the city streets since Bane's takeover, she never could have guessed that Gotham had fallen so totally into decay. She had never realized the extent of lawlessness, fear, and misery that Bane had inflicted on the city. People were suffering. People were starving. While she kept warm beside him, in their bed…

But her thoughts of Bane never lingered. She didn't have time to sit idle and think. Thankfully. Selina established a strict routine for the both of them. In the mornings they would make their rounds. Drive into the safe zones, check the neighborhood communes on each block, deliver a few supplies and packets of seeds ready for planting. Selina led an entire crew, five including Susan. Sometimes a young girl, Selina's ward of sorts, would tag along for the ride; she always seemed a bit skittish. Any slight movement in the street would put her on edge. She often volunteered to wait in the car and would always grow reluctant and irritable when her leader took the team to the outskirts of the danger zones to scope out the scene and inspect the more recent damages.

There was not much they could do for the citizens living there, Selina had admitted gravely. Before Susan arrived they could only manage sparse communication between zones. They had discussed sending packages of seeds and supplies over the borders but the risk of detection – and worse, retribution – seemed too high considering what meager provisions they were able to make. For the time, they left the issue alone although there was a considerable amount of guilt to be felt in the atmosphere that never failed to amaze Susan. For all of Bane's hellfire preaching about the corruption and selfish greed of Gotham city, she had never seen such solidarity as in the citizens she encountered. An unspoken bond, an energy, a nameless resilience…it nearly moved her to a new level of compassion.

Nearly. A small, mean voice in the back of her mind continued to remind her that she was not one of them. She was still a tourist here. So long as she returned every night to that apartment.

"Susan?"  
The pen stilled in her hand.

"Caught you thinking again didn't I?" Selina teased gently, "I can see it fading in your eyes."

"Guilty."

The two women exchanged a small smile. She would like to think that they were almost friends. But she knew Selina didn't trust her. Even for all of Susan's good work, her suspicion lingered, in the crease between her brows and in the tightness of her smile. But Susan couldn't blame her no matter how it stung.

"Let's go see about some lunch." Selina rose, stretching, and she did the same, leading them from the office and into the main atrium of the complex. People were milling about, chatting lightly, lining up in front of the small metal card tables set up around the room.

This was lunch. The families, the vagabonds, the loners, the formerly rich and the obstinately poor would fix what they could and bring it here for the lot to share. The air was a mixture of aromas, some good, some bad. They began to peruse the tables, walking idly among the crowd. The faces were all familiar by now, save for a few unfamiliar newcomers, and Susan cherished the nods and smiles she received from the people she passed. Their trust was as reluctant as Selina's but it was _something_.

She faltered in her step suddenly as a little body collided with her leg.

"Flower lady!"

She smiled down into the flushed face of her new favorite friend who was grinning right back, her arms wrapped in a vice grip around her leg.

"Hello Violet," Susan cooed and bent to take the child in her arms. "How are you today?"

"Starving!" she exclaimed, "Chicken noodles! Charge!" She slipped an arm from around Susan's neck to point a small imperious finger at the nearest table. "Please," she added neatly as an afterthought and planted a kiss on her cheek.

How could she refuse? Laughing gently, she steered the both of them to the desired table and gathered two bowls. Selina had gotten lost in the miscellany but that was just fine. Susan had found good company.

"To the usual spot?" she asked, adjusting her grip on the child and being careful not to jostle the soup. Violet only nodded, already tentatively dipping her tongue into the bowl, relishing in the steam and smell of it.

The "usual spot" was an old fainting couch, its mahogany feet gnarled and checked and its red upholstery faded with age and neglect. The seats were stained and the pillows poorly mended but it was Violet's favorite seat in the entire complex. Susan enjoyed it to for it sat in a generous pool of sunlight. The day was bright and warmer than it had been and she shivered under the smiling light as she and the child settled onto their special couch.

Violet was as talkative as usual, chattering aimlessly about this and that. About her antics with the other children, their petty fights, how the soup had burned her tongue, how happy she was to see her, and about what she called "kitchen school". Susan knew the girl's mother had tried to keep up with her schooling. It was an attempt to maintain normalcy and she applauded the woman. This week, Violet reported, was an English week.

"Mommy brings out her big smelly book," she chirped, pausing only to gobble up the bits of chicken that Susan had shoveled into her bowl, "And she reads about, uh…Poe and Shakesbear."  
"Shakespeare?" Susan corrected, mildly impressed although she knew she was a precocious child.

"Uh yeah," Violent nodded, still a bit uncertain about the name, "He talks funny and sometimes I don't want to listen but sometimes I do to make mommy happy. She gets sad when she reads that big smelly book sometimes and then she has to put it away early." The child trailed off suddenly and began to finger an ugly blotch on the couch. She hated to think it but it looked like blood.

Susan frowned. "Do you ever get sad, Violet?"

The girl shrugged. "Sometimes. Sometimes I wish mommy would let me go outside."

She nodded thoughtfully. Everyone was advised not to wander in the streets, to keep close to the complex. The children were absolutely restricted from leaving the apartments whatsoever. It was not a rule that she agreed with but one she could understand. She couldn't even imagine what she would do if anything happened to Violet…the child had quickly become a priority, a friend, a part of her that she couldn't have found otherwise. And so she cherished her, kept her safe, kept her occupied, and tried to keep her spirits high despite the world warring just beyond her window.

"You like to play outside?" Susan asked and the girl nodded, handing over her empty bowl and spoon.

"Mommy would take me to the park all the time," she scooted up close beside Susan as she set the bowls on the floor, "I liked the trees the best – and the flowers! They made everything better. Even when the city looked extra ugly and old and…ugly." She giggled and ran a hand across her mouth to get the last of the soup from her upper lip.

Susan's grin faltered as something struck her. Something Violet had said…

"Sweetheart, say that again," she murmured, nudging her gently.

"That again!" Violet cheered and broke into a fit of uproarious laughter. But Susan barely heard her glee. Her mind was turning at a frightful pace, as an idea began to form, began to pick up speed…

"What's the matter?" She felt the child tug at the end of her braid. Her face split with a smile.

"Violent," she began and stood up from the couch, "You're a genius."

"I know," the girl agreed, although slightly confused.

"I have to go talk to Selina, okay?" Susan explained as picked up the bowls to return them, "Thank you for having lunch with me, sweetheart."

"Wait!" she cried just as she turned to leave. From the look on her face, Susan knew precisely what was the matter.

"Oh – of course." Tucking the bowls under her arm, she rubbed her palms briskly and with a flourish of her hands produced a perfect little violet. The girl gasped, just as amazed as she had been upon their first encounter, and reached for it.

"Thank you, flower lady" she whispered and tucked it neatly behind her ear.

With one final parting smile, Susan went away inspired, her eyes scanning the now mostly seated crowd for Selina. She found her sitting with a group of familiar faces. A few of them greeted Susan as she approached, nodding and smiling and welcoming her to join them. She appreciated the gestures but was quick to pull Selina aside.

"What's the matter?" the woman inquired, looking into her face sternly.

"Come back to the office with me," she replied excitedly, "I think I'm onto something."

Selina's confusion nearly paralleled that of Violet's but she followed her back through the lobby and down the hallway. The crease between her dark brows did not recede until she had resumed the seat at her desk and Susan had thoroughly explained her plan. Then, Selina only looked dubious.

"It's premature, I know" she offered, watching her face, "But I believe it's worth a shot."

"You're talking about an open display of resistance," Selina began, shaking her head, "Do you have any idea of the risk we would be taking? We would be risking it all – our entire operation!"

"I agree. The risk is incredibly high," she conceded with a nod, "But maybe not for you." Selina only frowned as she continued. "What if I went to the borders alone? Planted the necessities and went on my way. That way should any of Bane's men see me, I'm the only one who has to answer to Bane." The idea of being reported to Bane or answering to his interrogation filled her with an unexplained and gnawing trepidation which she struggled to put aside.

She was not unaware, however, of the flicker of surprise on Selina's face. The woman seemed almost impressed by her selfless suggestion. But her expression changed once more into a look of suspicion.

"Or you could expose the entire operation," Selina murmured, her eyes flashing darkly, "Who knows? Under pressure, the little details might come spilling out…"

"You really don't trust me, do you? After all this time…?"

The silence was tense as they stared at one another, searching, waiting. Their was a glimpse of regret in Selina's face before her scowl broke completely. Sighing, she fell into the nearest chair, holding her head in her hands.

"I don't know," she said simply and her exhaustion, her frustration was evident in her voice, "I don't know…."

The indecision was plain on her face. If Selina agreed to the plan, the entire operation was at risk of exposure and the lives she had worked so hard to shelter were inarguably threatened. However…there was no denying it. The plan would work, would be highly beneficial. But at what cost?

Looking down at the woman, Susan grew suddenly inspired and felt the warmth of a newfound bravery fluttering in the base of her spine. "C'mon," she started and crossed the room to grab her coat from the back of the desk chair, "It's about time I really showed you what I'm made of."

Selina stared up at her, confused, hesitant, before finally rising to her feet and following her out of the office. A few of Selina's comrades had finished their meal and were gathered outside in the hallway, waiting for instruction. They stood as they passed and were ready to join them when she raised her hand to stop them.

"No, no" she murmured, "Just us this afternoon. Thank you, but no."

To her utmost surprise, they obeyed, falling back and nodding in comprehension. Susan's astonishment carried her out onto the street and she was still wide-eyed and impressed when she slid into the driver's seat of the car Selina had commandeered some weeks previous. The front seat of the car was tense with silence as Susan pulled away from the curb and still neither woman spoke as she keenly navigated the empty city streets. Selina only spoke when they had at last reached the border of the nearest red zone and the car rumbled to a stop.

"I'll keep the car running," she murmured, peering through the front and side windows to survey the area, "Just in case." Then she turned to stare at her, her expression an obvious show of apprehension.

Susan only nodded and moved to get out of the car. The slam of the passenger side door seemed deafening, echoing on the silent pavement and along the darkened window fronts of the street. She sighed for the relief of the chilly air sweeping across the back of her neck and made her way slowly, slowly to the junction in the road. Selina and her team had designated the zones months previous with paint. And now Susan stood with the toes of her boots on the red line, her eyes cautiously scanning the rooftops and iron balconies of the surrounding buildings.

Then, with a slow sigh, lifting her hands, she began.

The breeze seemed to still and the air held its breath, waiting…and the ground began to rumble. There was an almighty _crack _as the pavement split, ripping, moving, shifting beneath the power of her hand. The roar continued, dust and soil and sand clouding the air, as the vegetation began to explode from the wide and jagged gaps in the concrete. Strong, green shoots sprouted up around her, their verdant faces upturned and eager, reaching for the sunlight. Leaves and flowers burst forth and then the fruits and the vegetables too, bending the vines with their succulent weight, their bright skins rich and shining.

Susan felt her strength, felt the warmth of it expand in her chest and simmer in her blood. As the vines and sprouts and shoots continued to blossom, the green and all its luster filled her and she felt the fear, the bleak gray and white of the city dissolve away, overgrown with her energy, her creation…she beamed in the midst of it all, how she was meant to be, lost to the harmony, the ecstasy of her own power….

But she was not lost enough to miss the flicker of movement, high up above, wavering on the rooftop on her immediate right. She locked eyes with the soldier just as he locked his aim on her.

The pain was all too familiar, blazing through her chest with white-hot severity. Her knees buckled for the agony and there was a dull thud as her back met the pavement. She couldn't think, she couldn't breathe for the pain…for a moment she thought she might die…it had never seemed so excruciating before…Distantly, she heard the echo of more gunfire splitting the cold air and then the screech of rubber on concrete. Her hazy mind registered that Selina had fled the scene. Susan felt a cold and indistinct sting of hurt at the realization…but she was fading too fast to feel too offended.

Her chest was on fire. And the blood…there was so much blood…she was drowning in it. Screaming red, screaming against the green of her creation. She stared up at the flowers from where she lay. Their faces seemed to turn down at her in interest, pity, fear…their white and pink cheeks were flecked with her blood. She almost smiled.

But then a figure loomed into few, coarse and dark. She felt hands upon her, moving over her person with a trained quickness. A soldier…and then suddenly the ground fell away from her.

"Susan." She recognized his voice instantly, recognized the slow and sleepy accent that matched the eyes.

_Barsad…_

"Susan, you're an idiot."

And then, smiling, nodding weakly in agreement, she slipped away.


	18. Chapter 18

The smell of blood was nearly overwhelming. She was swimming in it and her head was like a heavy stone, pulling her deeper into the depths of that _stench_, that horrible visceral smell.

Consciousness came in great sweeping waves, washing over her, pushing her up towards the surface where she caught words, phrases, faces bearing down at her in garbled tongues and shadowy pictures. She could feel their hands. At first, when the smell – and the pain – had been much stronger, they were quick, urgent. And then, they were familiar, gentle, sure. Shifting her in her sleep, fixing the clump of white bandages on her chest, smoothing the unkempt kinks in her hair…

Then – the most wonderful perfume, the smell of gardenias, curling about her in the dark, dampening the scent of blood and lifting its higher, sweeter notes. The aroma intensified and even in her slumber she could feel a familiar energy stirring within her, tingling in the valley of her palms, a low heat...

The voices, whispering, edged their way through the darkness.

"Should we cut them back? They're growing so fast – "

"Let them do their work. They're healing her."

Bane.

He understood…she knew he understood…She felt his presence beside her in the dark. He never seemed to leave…never…

And then suddenly she was very wide awake, staring into those gray brilliant eyes so warm for the hard and bleary light of the bedroom. Yes, she was in her bed…He stared at her, waiting, his hand poised above her forehead. Susan watched as a single droplet of water eased from the wash cloth in his hand and rolled down his wrist. She felt the absurd urge to move forth and lap it up…

"Susan?" His voice seemed to pull her further from the shadows. Bane leaned in closer. He breathed in deeply and seemed to smile, savoring the smell of the flowers. "It is very nice to see you."

She blinked at him numbly before she looked away to throw a cursory glance about the room. The sight was a sorry one. The vines and vegetation that had once flowered along the windowsills and the mantle had withered and turned brown in her absence. The few remaining blooms held their pale faces turned towards the bed like mourners, lingering after the dead.

Someone had set up a couple of medical machines around the bed which hummed and beeped with a mellow rhythm as she stirred. There was a needle in her arm hooked up to an IV that was dripping clear liquid. Saline. The scent of blood was faint on the air, nearly undetectable. She felt her vines, taut across her shoulders and wound along the crook of her neck. The leaves breathed and rustled as she attempted to sit up, uncoiling to give her more range of movement; some of the more stubborn blooms, white and fragrant, remained nestled in her hair like a brilliant crown.

"How do you feel?" Bane began, measuring her as she moved upright.

Susan could only shrug lightly. Her system was still numb from all the sleep; however, she had a gnawing suspicion that her condition would only worsen as she grew livelier. But for now, despite the lack of sensation in the bottoms of her feet and a dull throbbing ache in her chest, she felt rather fine. In fact, she could feel a strange, latent sense of peace thrumming in her weary veins.

"How long have you been sitting there?" she replied slowly. Her voice cracked with dry neglect. "Watching me…?"

It was his turn to be silent. His glanced away, almost bashful to admit to the fact they both knew very well. Instead he busied himself with ringing out the wash cloth in a nearby plastic basin.

"Don't you have anything better to do?"

The question seemed to strike a nerve and he whipped around, dropping the towel with a wet _plop_. Susan laughed and the ache she had expected rolled through her with a sudden horrible force and the chuckle sputtered into a string of pained curses.

"And miss your beautiful orchestrations?" he mused, clasping his hands together with mock solemnity and eyeing her thoughtfully, "_Never_."

"How long have I been down?" She was almost afraid of the answer.

"A week now."  
Her stomach churned uneasily. _A week_…Selina must think her dead. Or worse – a snitch. She'd never been out for so long…What was the matter with her? Was her power failing? She frowned and her hand moved almost unconsciously to rub the wound on her chest but Bane caught her hand, his eyes stern with warning. The worry was plain on her face and he seemed to notice.

"Who the fuck shot me?" she spat angrily. She let her hand linger in Bane's grasp, allowing him to stroke the tender valley of her palms with a large, calloused thumb; she would admit that it soothed her.

"It doesn't matter," he replied simply, tilting his head slightly to look at her. "He is dead now. And you have Barsad to thank for that."

Ah yes. Susan supposed she owed him a lot of gratitude. He had saved her life. To think she might still be bleeding out on the concrete…right where Selina had left her. A bitter anger flooded her then as she remembered the sound of those screeching tires as she made her escape. And yet she could only blame herself for what happened; after all she had volunteered herself…

This didn't change anything. Susan was anxious to be up and about again. Then she could prove to Selina that she had kept her word, that she could trust her with the safety of the people she had come to know and to care about. She was also anxious to learn if her contribution had made any impression upon the issue that faced those citizens living within the red zones – or if Susan had taken that bullet for nothing. The thought, however, didn't discourage her.

Nature would find its way as it always did.

Whether or not her powers were flagging, and despite the length of time she had spent drifting lazily between sleep and reality and infinity, the flora had come to her aid once again. They had healed her in a way the medicine could not, budding and strengthening her when her humanity failed. But still the notion wore heavily on her mind…it should not have taken her a week to recover…

She looked at Bane then. He seemed to envelope the entire room with his form and his heat and she was thankful for his presence, which kept the chill of the room at bay. His posture was firm and irresolute, a soldier at vigil, in the simple chair beside her bed and yet, Susan could sense a tension spanning across his shoulders and in his neck. She wondered precisely _how_ _long_ it had been since he had moved from her side…He was staring at nothing, lost in his own thoughts; his thumb continued to move in slow, gentle circles in the palm of her hand.

Susan reached out with certainty, her trepidation at touching him long abandoned, and placed her other hand on the side of his neck. The energy stirred within her fingertips. His eyes jumped to her face, searching, wanting.

"You're glad to have me back?" she whispered, gazing at him warmly. They both knew the answer to that.

He closed his eyes, the only affirmation he would allow. But he leaned into her touch and seemed to relax beneath her particular mercy. They remained that way for moment, at peace and without pain. As Susan watched him, watched his massive chest rise and fall with each blissful, easy breath, she remembered the light she had seen in his eyes that night so many weeks ago; the way his eyes had seemed to glisten in the moonlight, with a rapturous guarantee, with a threat as sure as it was treacherous, as it was wonderful. She had witnessed a moment of weakness she knew. A moment when he had allowed the hate and the fury and the apathy, the mask he wore, to slip.

He had shown her that he loved her.

In his own way. Incomplete and unclear and perhaps confused.

But he loved her. And she understood this.

She understood and –

"I will leave you for now," Bane began suddenly, seeming to come back from whatever paradise he had disappeared to inside his head. "You will want to wash and get dressed." His busied himself with unhooking her from the various machines and Susan withdrew her hand. She let the moment pass, savoring its intimacy, and watched his figure retreat through the doorway of the bedroom with the grim smile of an unfinished thought.

Oh well.

It was sure to come back to her later.

She edged from the bed, being careful not to disturb the bandages on her chest and wary of the icy tingling sensation in her legs, weak from disuse. The first steps were tentative and painful. Her bones ached with the cold and the new movement but she managed her way to the bathroom. There she found her companion had laid out a few towels and some soaps. Stolen, she now knew, from the supply trucks that rattled through the city at intervals.

She couldn't help but smile at the little bottles as she turned the faucets to the appropriate degree and stood back, waiting for the water to grow warm. Undressing, she was cautious of her bandages and removed them with care. The blood there had fermented and the gauze, which she swiftly discarded, smelled horrible. She was almost afraid to look in the mirror.

It was not entirely awful. The wound was mottled and bruised and red with soreness. Another knotted ugly hole to match the others, she mused bitterly, examining her naked form. Just as her flora had withered, so too had her hair lost some of its luster; her eyes, now entirely green, seemed glassy and dull in the fluorescence and her skin was lifeless and ashen and smelt like decay.

She wondered idly if, in fact, she had died after all. And somehow come back.

Would heaven have kicked her out? Would hell?

That aroused a laugh, bubbling weak in her chest, and with a low shudder of pain she stepped away from the mirror which was gathering steam and into the shower. The water thundered over her in great waves, bringing her relief from the pain and the stench of death. Her skin seemed to rejoice under the attention and her palms hummed with new energy, the sad brown spores eagerly lapping up the hydration. She lingered for a few minutes more than necessary but did not allow herself to tarry for very long; all it took was a bit of action to remind her how hungry she was.

She was in the midst of drying off when she realized her wound would need to be re-bandaged. Briskly combing the wet hair from her eyes, she stuck her head into the hall.

"Bane!"

He appeared immediately, materializing in the doorway of his bedroom. He seemed to know what she needed, beckoning her into his room. With a nod, she padded across the hall and waited patiently on the edge of his bed, not bothering to wrap the towel entirely around herself, as Bane moved into the adjoining bathroom.

"I suppose it is my turn now to tend to you," he murmured, gathering the necessary supplies in his large hands. His eyes crinkled with amusement as he returned and knelt beside her to level with her.

"I won't make it a habit, don't worry" she replied neatly, straightening to give him a better angle at the wound, "Unlike you. If you're not orchestrating the mess, you're in the middle of it."

"Perhaps," came his customary reply, a sign that her teasing had momentarily bested him. He began, first with the rubbing alcohol and the cleaner and them with the gauze and there was silence between while he worked broken only by Susan's occasional quiet gasp and wince of pain.

"But," he began, his voice echoing clearly across the tile still damp from her bath, "That does beg the question: what were you doing down at the borders?"

The air hitched in her throat and seemed to seep from her lungs. Of course…why shouldn't he ask? She felt her skin prickle with an awful heat and a fear that she didn't understand.

"I…" Her throat was tight and dry and her tongue was heavy in her mouth. "I was just…dawdling around."

"And that warranted a bullet from one of my men?" He was quick, his eyes locked on her face with clear determination.

Susan had nothing to say. There was nothing she _could _say, without incriminating herself, without exposing her activity. Without putting everyone and everything in danger of retaliation. So she remained silent, staring back at him evenly and fixing her face with a calm indifference.

An apathy, she realized, that had once come so naturally.

Bane did not relent, his hands falling away from her bandages to settle on either side of her legs, effectively caging her. Another ripple of fear bubbled in her blood. "Do you want to die, Susan?"

The question seemed to chill the air. Susan balked, her eyes widening slightly in disbelief and her lips parting to allow the smallest of sighs to escape her. But still she stayed silent.

"Do you understand just _what _you are? And how something, _someone _like you is not fit to survive in this city? And the way you expose yourself so absurdly to its elements?" He reached up to stroke her hair, staring at her wistfully, "Your creation…what is it for in this town? How could it ever be…?"

Susan had no idea what he meant. He was being nonsensical; he was lost in his head. Her skin bristled with unease.

"There was a time…I think," he began, barely whispering, "When…maybe…" He trailed off suddenly, contemplating some memory that Susan could not read in his eyes, those eyes that seemed very far away – but then he returned, just as suddenly.

"I do not know what you have been doing, where you run off to for hours, for days at a time," he growled, cornering her with his sharp gray gaze, "But the people of this city and the people's court will demand answers. They will view your actions as insurgence – and they will bring you to a sentence."

At this, Susan snapped. "You must be joking – you really believe that that farce of a justice system has any standing? That they have any power over me? And – "She faltered, her voice cracking suddenly, "Am I to believe that you would hand me over so swiftly?"

His eyes seemed to soften at her words and he shifted his weight subtly. Now it was his turn to be silent. To speak would be to condemn himself to an emotion and a reality he was not quite ready to declare. After a few tense moments, he sighed, his mask crackling with a note of finality. "I have no jurisdiction in the courts. That does not align with our plan."

Susan's brow lifted in curious arc. "_Our_?"

Bane blinked, momentarily puzzled, before the realization began to trickle across his features. He had not been careful this time.

"You mean _her_, don't you?" The fire was rising in Susan's voice, "You mean Talia."

Bane got to his feet with such swift, violent movement that she flinched. He was towering over her now, clenching and unclenching his fists, breathing hard as if the very mention of the name struck something ancient and furious within him. His eyes were wide and wild and swallowed her whole as he stared down at her. She glared right back, unflinching now and unafraid.

He couldn't hurt her. He wouldn't. And yet –

In a burst of ferocity, he moved over her, his huge hands clenching her shoulders. The scream caught in her throat; it felt like her bones were splitting beneath his grasp. He held her close, nearly raising her up off the bed, so he could look into her eyes; so that she could feel the frustration and the fear and the anger coursing, burning within him.

"_Do you want to die, Susan_?" he hissed, searching her face with those wild eyes…Susan could only manage a brief shake of her head, her words splintering in her throat before they could pass through her teeth.

"_Then – LEAVE IT ALONE!"_

With that, he flung her unceremoniously onto the bed, the flowers in her hair scattering with the force. They gave a soft whisper as they fell to the floor.

The room was still echoing with his roar when he had gone. Susan lay very still, sprawled naked and vulnerable across the bed; she didn't move for fear of the pain. She had felt the power in his hands, the sheer and awful ferocity of his muscle…he could've broken her in two, weak as she was…Curling inward, wary of the agony, she clutched the towel to her body and turned away from the door.

She did not bother to collect the flowers from the floor.

0000

Bane was still seething, breathing hard, when he reached the parlor. He paced violently. He didn't know what to do with his hands, wriggling his fingers anxiously with each turn of the room.

_What made him so furious?_

He hadn't lost control like this since…since – he shook his head, ejecting the thought from his mind. Turning abruptly, he settled rigidly into a nearby chair and took a deep breath, allowing his usual cold serenity to seep back into his person; he folded his hands patiently to keep them from clenching.

Turning the last few moments over and then over again in his head, he concluded that it had been unwise to be so rash. But – she had been so _belligerent, _so _unwilling. _She frustrated him beyond the capacity for rational thought! If she wanted to get herself killed, if she wanted all the hot lead in the world, by all means she could have it! Bane wanted no part of that irritable, bitter spirit.

He loathed it. He loathed it because it was a reminder of his inability to suppress her, to control her. It struck some lingering part of his pride, reminded him that his power was lost to Susan. And while a greater part of him, although reluctant, delighted in her passion and her willingness to deny and to tease him…he wished for that control – if it meant forcing her to lay low, to cooperate for the sake of her life…

Bane knew precisely what she was doing. Barsad had reported in full the details of the attack; Susan had had come with a friend – Selina Kyle. The woman (_the bitch) _had fled the scene once shots were fired…Yes, of course, he had known and had kept this from Susan to assure the continuation of her insurgent activities. He smiled quietly in spite of himself; he had never taken Susan for the compassionate advocate. It was a change in her behavior he knew had been inspired by a will to revolt against his control.

It might've worked if she had not been doing exactly what he had hoped. Everything was going accordingly...

And yet –

He had not planned for so much blood and there had been so much blood, _her blood_…and if she were to die? How did that coalesce with his plans?

The answer was simple: it didn't. He did not want Susan to die. At least not at the hands of one of those idiot recruits, who were not fit to look at her yet alone strike her down! The fervor of the thought drew him to a halt. And a new question blossomed across the gray space of his mind.

_Why do you care?_

He hadn't cared months ago. Not when she was a weapon, a pledge of his allegiance to the league. Not when he had decided her purpose, to be raised up as false hope to the people of this wretched city. She had been valuable of course, but now…the answer to his question stirred within him uneasily. Now…she was not simply valuable to the League, he realized –

"But to me as well."

His words echoed eerily in the quiet space, sounding strange and foreign as they rolled off his tongue. The blinding, immaculate truth brought him to his feet in a sudden rush of movement and he stood there for a moment, blinking numbly in the light of it. For a moment, his uncertainty petrified him…and then –

He felt a burst of warmth, pooling in his chest and filling him with a great and upending urge to dash from the room and stride back across the hall to Susan. And he felt absurd to harbor such a notion but – _no!_ He would go to her, show her…show her how he _(no he could never tell her, she would laugh, she would if she knew that he –)_

"Bane."

The voice floated out of the darkness, calm though it surprised him. The face of its owner followed after, looming into view.

"My friend…you look pale. Is something the matter?"

Talia crossed out of the shadow, moving toward the light from the window with cool, elegant strides, her expression unaffected and discreet. But Bane knew better and composed himself as such, quickly discarding his surprise at her sudden arrival.

"Of course not," he replied with a quick shake of his head that sent the thoughts within spiraling, falling away from him, "I am only tired."

She pursed her lips primly, staring up at him now. "It is early evening yet. You ought to rest, my dearest. I need you strong and keen…Unless of course," she paused and her eyes wandered over his shoulder to the dark mouth of the hallway. "_She_ is here."

It was more statement than question and left him no room to respond. He simply stared at her, fixing his eyes with a gray indifference. Talia's eyes, thankfully, lingered on the place behind them. He doubted the sincerity in his apathy and if she caught any glimpse of the light in his eyes –

"I heard about the incident," she stated calmly, peering into the darkness, "And had only to wonder why you did not tell me directly, immediately…and why you have not already broken her neck for such an obvious show of insurgence."

Bane felt something hard turn over in his stomach with a sickening slowness. He was for an absurd and incomprehensible moment disturbed by her ferocity but managed to keep the shock from his expression. "She is important, Talia" he replied firmly.

Her eyes leapt back to his face, searching, wild, and horrible. There was a pause. She hummed lowly and the sound was a dangerous one, like an animal on the brink of cool ferocity. "So now will you reveal your master plan?" She moved away from him, turning briskly to take a seat on the couch. Her eyes gleamed coldly as she settled. "Enlighten me."

A shameful, bitter heat blossomed across the back of his neck. Bane did not rightly enjoy being chastised like a child…especially by someone he assumed to be his equal. He drew up to his full height then, scowling down at her. "Very well. Susan Isley's participation in the small, relatively pathetic rebellions across town is all accordant with the plan. I intended for Susan, from the beginning, to act as a symbol of false hope for the people of Gotham. She was – and remains – a valuable asset to the League."

Talia's eyes narrowed and she tilted her head slightly as if weighing his words. "Yes…valuable. But expendable."

Bane blinked, momentarily stunned by her words. "I cannot agree. Perhaps if you considered – "

"Do not bother with your explanations," she hissed, standing suddenly with the force of her fury, "Do you think me so ignorant? Do you think you could conceal yourself so totally from me? That woman has nearly ruined you and yet you protect her! She has seduced you, away from your people, away from our cause. She is only fit to warm your bed and yet you insist upon her value!"

In one swift, violent movement he was striding towards her, looming over her at his full height, chest seizing heavily with hard angry breaths. Yes, he was angry, seething, hearing her words echo in his head; overcome suddenly with the urge to _strike her down_…The desire terrified and confused him and he kept his fists firm at his sides, although they shook with the effort to contain his fury.

"Do not speak of her in that way," he growled, an inhuman darkness quivering in his voice, "_Ever_."

There was a moment – could it have been merely a moment? – of consuming and terrible silence. They stared at one another, breathing low and heavy, neither daring to move. Bane thought he might split in two for the fury in her eyes. Never in a million years would he have imagined himself the victim of that familiar wrathful gaze. And never would he have imagined speaking to her in such a way as to deserve it.

His contempt was disgusting and mistaken and yet – he felt rectified, justified in his defiance. He thought of Susan sleeping down the hall and felt the hard lump of something in his stomach turn once more.

When Talia spoke again it was with an indifference as artificial as her cold smile. "Very well," she murmured neatly, blinking up at him almost serenely, "Then we come to your final test. A test of allegiance."

Bane's newfound triumph faltered suddenly. His mind recalled the command Talia had given him all those months ago, the imposition that had filled him with such similar unease, that he had neglected to observe. His eyes lowered thoughtfully, mind reeling with memory and overwhelming, upsetting emotion. Had he endangered Susan further when he only meant to –

His thoughts were interrupted suddenly by a cool hand on his shoulder. His gaze flickered upward and met hers. Her smile widened and her teeth gleamed in the dim light of the evening.

"Either you will convince her to quit her rebel activity. And to remain here, in your ivory tower, dormant." Bane watched as her hand snaked up the broad expanse of his arm to where it settled on the side of his neck, a touch that ached with familiarity. There was a time when the briefest of affections from her was rapture, was paradise. But now as she touched him, he was startled to feel _nothing_…

"Or I will do what you obviously cannot," she purred, tenderly thumbing the line of skin just below the brim of the mask, "And lead an attack on the rebels. I will destroy every man, woman, and child involved in the resistance. Perhaps then, they will learn the true nature of hope," She drew her hand away, "And perhaps you will too."

Her lips were moving then, mouthing the last of her promise, and very distantly he felt her fingers upon the mouthpiece of his mask in a sign of farewell. But it all seemed very far away, distorted by the shuttering dread rolling through his chest and the white noise ringing in his skull. The slam of the door was the only thing to remind him that he was still standing there, stupidly, in the living room.

He felt one thousand pounds heavier for her words, for this the second command she had given him. His mind, his _mind_…it reeled, it echoed with an inconceivable and unfamiliar trepidation. He had always been sure, always been certain, and now…and now…

Another command that he could not possibly observe. And yet, he _must_…he would not allow himself to fathom the extent of Talia's retribution. To do so brought on another rattling bout of nervous, hollow rage. He gently touched the place where she had touched him.

_So cold…her hand had been so cold…_

_And now…and now…_

There was Susan. He remembered with a wince of grief how indelicately he had handled her. Unceremonious and sorry. He turned with new conviction toward the hallway. The shadows collected in ridge-like, monstrous patterns across his back as he moved through the darkness, his pace quiet and sure.

She was just as he had left her. Curled naked upon the bed like a silver curl of moonlight. She was sleeping soundly but even in the fading light and even for the shadows he could see the bruises already beginning to line her arms and the markings of his frustration upon her. A wave of sorrow rushed through him then, startling him, pushing him into the room.

Sitting gently on the edge of the bed, he spotted the fallen blooms on the floor. He knelt and retrieved them, folding them neatly in his palms. Gardenias. He knew their names now. And there was no mistaking their arresting perfume. Peering over his shoulder, he watched her sleep. The tears were dry on her face now, painting her cheeks with silver. Her lashes, sticky with melancholy, fluttered. Her lips twitched. As if she sensed he was near.

He chose to satisfy her soft question. Tucking the blooms back into her hair, he lay down and folded her into him, as kindly as he could manage, mindful of her wound. She did not stir, instead pressing into his chest with silent absolution. He simply held her, absolutely far from sleep, and realized the only certainty that remained was that she was there, sleeping against him, resolved and unafraid of the fury pressing in around her even as she slept.

And then how could he sleep? Faced with that abandon…


	19. Chapter 19

The days wore on in slow succession, a seemingly endless spectrum of sodden, listless gray. The windows in the bedroom where they slept and in the parlor stayed wet with rain and sickly drizzle, while the sun struggled to breath for the close cover of the clouds. It seemed to Susan, restless already from too many days wasted lying around, that the world outside had fallen into a lazy sort of intermission. The sun didn't even bother to show its face.

It had been…a week now? She couldn't be sure of the precise count, only that it had been too damn long already. The wound in her chest was agony enough to limit the range and frequency of her activity and the extent of her restlessness, but not enough to keep her bedridden. Much to Bane's irritation.

He had given her strict orders to be a good patient, insisting that it would help to shorten her recuperation but Susan had her suspicions. The way he seemed to hover beside her, lingering in every doorway, eager to attend to any request she might make and just as eager to scold her back into bed or into the nearest chair every time she attempted to lift a finger – you would think he liked playing mother.

Yet even for his affection, even for his occasional, astonishing softness, he remained himself. Iron, obstinate, resolute. He kept his routine, departing from the apartment without much ceremony, at some sharp hour every morning; Susan watched him leave with envy, a jealousy that was only sated when he returned in the evening. And he returned _every_ evening at the same hour, obliterating all precedence and making up for past absent offenses it seemed. Sometimes he returned with a gift, some small token he had managed to salvage from the wreckage of the city he had stoned. Sometimes a book, sometimes a miscellaneous, interesting trinket.

She didn't completely understand his behavior. Why he had suddenly felt the urge to tend to her with such reverence. More reverence than she thought necessary at times. Perhaps it was his simple, soundless way of apologizing for the hard way he handled her the afternoon she woke up; she was sure that she sensed the faintest hint of regret in his touch. Maybe it did his pride right to see her like this, which was a less quixotic suggestion but a lucid one all the same. Her power had always impressed him and maybe her act of rebellion had threatened him in some way. Maybe he felt stronger seeing her weakened.

Of course, now that her weekly excursions had been brought to his attention, she considered that Bane's suspicions had been aroused and that he stayed to keep a close eye on her. This suggestion lingered in the back of her mind even as she dismissed the others. Susan quickly realized that there would be no way of communicating with Selina, not under Bane's close attention. Even when he was absent, she could feel his presence beside her, as real and warm and heavy as she had when she was in the dark. In the end, she snapped the little cellular device in half and threw it over the terrace. Just the sight of it was enough to worsen her agitation. Besides – when her strength returned in full, she would know just where Selina and her crew were hiding.

Susan was eager to return. She had long since forgiven Selina for the way she had left her; she could understand her panic, her need to protect her own. She respected it even. But the longer she kept away, the more she knew Selina would doubt her resolution and she yearned to prove her wrong. To prove them all wrong, to prove that she _knew_ her purpose amongst them.

What's more, she yearned to know the results of her first attempt at the border. Surely it would have been a success…unless Bane – unless Talia – had the men burn the crops. It was not entirely impossible. After all they had been willing enough to shoot her down…considering their obstacles only worsened her itch to be out and about.

Her boredom was a crippling weight upon her shoulders, wearing upon her as she slunk from room to room, out on to the terrace, into the bedroom, to the window, to the kitchen…She found herself playing Bane's shadow in the evenings. He objected at first, irritated by her constant sighing after a long day of God knows what, but he eventually welcomed her company as he did now.

They were settled in the parlor. She sat against his legs where he sat on the couch. He was watching her eat; 'dinner' for him had been earlier. They had been talking quietly for some time now.

Conversation had always been regular but Susan had had to prod him, to coax him to be comfortable, to trust her with something even more sacred than his body – his mind. Now, he spoke easily. She reasoned that, if anything, he was trying to appease her boredom. He told her stories, histories, memories that he could manage and she listened intently. The memories were always few and far between. It seemed to her that while Bane was incredibly intelligent, a genius even, a large part of his mind had simply dimmed steadily until it had darkened completely. Where any normal person might have stored memories and scenes from their past, Bane had only shadow.

Susan would never know if someone had thrown him into the darkness – or if he had thrown himself.

"How are you feeling?" he murmured suddenly, breaking the calm silence that had fallen over them. He reached down to play gently with a strand of her hair.

He asked her every day. The answer never changed. "Better," she replied neatly and took care to lick the juice from her finished peach from her fingers. She managed a smile for him and he touched her face, his eyebrows pulling up in an expression of fondness.

Bane was not usually so openly affectionate. Not outside of the bedroom anyway. Susan studied the light in his eyes and found them something more than tender. However, he began before she could.

"Do you believe in redemption, Susan?"

The seriousness of the question surprised her. She frowned and turned to face him, feeling his fingers fall from her hair almost reluctantly. "Are we talking about religion?"

Bane scoffed, his mask crackling harshly. "Of course not…no, no. Redemption…I mean…" It was the first time she had seen him at a loss for words "Do you think it is possible?"

She considered him for a moment and laid her head on his knees. His hands took to her hair once more; they were tense with his want of an answer. "Redemption from what?"

"From the past, perhaps. From ourselves."

Susan had believed so, once, yes. That, perhaps, after all the frigid hatred and the sorrow and the blood of her past and of her beginning that she could start again; that she could be born again like all her vines and flowers that blossomed with such ease, such certainty, their faces turned toward the sun. But in order for the forest to grow, she realized, you had to burn it down. The blood fermented the soil. The frigid earth strengthened the roots.

A child, she thought, maybe, could have redeemed her life and her grief. Could have paved another way. But that was out of the question now. There was no choice, no other life beyond this. She belonged to nature and nature to her. Absolutely. But she was not alone. They were beyond redemption, the both of them. They had signed their lives, their souls away to a force of nature. That was her conclusion. She gave it hesitantly.

"You want to know what I believe?" she began quietly, tracing a sad lazy pattern into the side of his leg with her finger, "The truth?"

"Please."

He did not often plead with her. Her eyes snapped up to meet his and she saw fear. An impossible dread that looked out of place, that looked _wrong._ It was enough to frighten the words from her mouth.

"Of course," she lied, "It's never too late, I think."

She swallowed the truth with shame and let her head fall into his lap once more; he would read the lie in the lines of her face if she let him. Closing her eyes against the silence, against the hollow words hanging in the air between them, she counted the seconds and waited for the tension in his hands to settle.

_Four_. Easy now. _Five_. That's better...

"Susan."

She opened her eyes.

"Susan – what is this? Have you seen this?"

The concern in his voice had worsened, as his fingers prodded at the back of her neck. She looked up at him, sliding out from under his hand. "What do you mean?"

Bane said nothing for a moment, staring at her, his face crooked with worry. His fingers were still outstretched, reaching for the nape of her neck. The words escaped him once more and his silence sent a whip of panic cracking through her.

"What?" she exclaimed, "What's the matter?" She didn't wait for a reply, nearly leaping to her feet to hurry down the hallway toward the nearest mirror. Bane's bedroom rippled with yellow light and shadow as she moved in front of the sink pivoting, reaching, straining to see. And then she saw it.

Creeping along the base of her skull, like a million little vines – her veins were green. Brilliant, sickening green. As if her blood had turned to chlorophyll in her veins. Overcome with a nauseating horror, she whipped around and hastily pushed back the sleeves of the night shirt she had worn for days.

Green. Her veins were green, shining up through her skin and giving it a sickly tinge. She looked at her hands now, as if seeing them for the first time, and saw that the green there had actually spread, inching out across the valley of her palms, curling along the sides and down her wrists. Faint now, but certainly there…

She glanced up into the mirror, her eyes wild and afraid and _green_…Bane appeared from the shadow of the bedroom and came to stand behind her. He lifted her hair gently, moving it aside so he could study the nape of her neck.

"Susan, what is this?" he murmured, peering down at her.

"If I knew that, do you think I'd be in such a panic?" she snapped. She pushed her sleeves down quickly and buried her palms in her fists.

"You are afraid."

It was not a question. His eyes tried to hold her in the reflection but she moved away, brushing past him and into the darkness of the bedroom. She sat quietly on the edge of the bed and he joined her, pressing near her. The concern on his face was naked and absolute in the light.

All this time lingering at her side, attending to her every insignificant grievance and he had not noticed. All this time to herself and _she _had not noticed the changes. No, they weren't changes – they were _mutations._ Another wave of panic churned through her with a slow sickly rhythm. She faintly remembered the fright and confusion she had felt some weeks ago upon discovering her eyes had turned green…she was wrong to have ignored such an obvious symptom. Perhaps then she could have done something to mitigate the mutation but now…

Now it was in her blood.

Even in her horror, she understood the simple harrowing evidence under her skin. Her greener, more verdant elements were working overtime to help her heal; with the entire system threatened, her powers were experiencing a full resurgence. She had felt the energy building, humming in her head, had expected it, enjoyed the familiar thrill. But there was something more, something sinister perhaps…

She had always known that her human system would suffer for the transformations it had sustained. Many of her mammalian capacities had gone unused if they were not lost completely. She understood and accepted that much, taking it as penalty for so much power. But she had never considered that it might eclipse her entirely; that her power might kill her. That it might poison her.

It was a disturbing thought that had swiftly become a reality.

She buried her fists into the bed and fought the pull of the presence beside her. If she looked at him, the truth would might spill forth from her mouth and from her eyes. Susan felt the forces shift within her like tectonic plates gliding in her blood; she felt her power pushing them along. It would stop for nothing, she knew. Nature would stop for nothing. Not for her, not for her fear. Not for him, not for his cause, or their cause or their fear.

What was redemption now?

_What is it for, in this town?_

What chance was there?

_Do you want to die?_

Nature would find its way within her. It was already making its way.

Bane waited for her, watched her as she wrestled loudly with herself. He gently took her hands to stop her anxious, furious hitching; he cradled them in one hand and smoothed the bedding with the other. She kept them bundled in the sleeves of her shirt although he didn't look at them. He didn't have to. They sat together in the silence, wallowing in what was so unspeakable.

All the while, her mettle continued to mount, her power continued to turn against the tide of her fear. She felt that old eternal force stirring in her fingertips.

She looked at him finally. And resolved herself.

"Bane?" Her voice quivered in the quiet air. "Could I ask something of you?"

He bowed his head earnestly. "Anything."

"Take off your mask for me."

His fingers, which had been kneading softly into the green palms of her hands, stilled. He didn't flinch.

She could remember the last time she had made such an astounding request. How utterly terrified she had been. Of him and the sheer magnitude of his agony. How she had been afraid to fail him, to hurt him. But she had moved sternly through her fear and she had succeeded. And when it had mattered most, she had turned her face away from him and given him the decency he deserved. But now…now, she was not afraid of him or of his pain because it was her pain too. Every ounce of it.

And now she wanted to see his face.

Susan wouldn't deny her newfound curiosity; of course, she had wondered what he looked like beneath the mask. For a while, it hadn't mattered to her. The two seemed indivisible – the man and the mask. He would not be Bane, he would not be the force she felt and the soldier she did not understand and the man she loved, without it. The thought of separating one from the other had never possessed her fascination for more than a few fleeting moments. But over the course of the past few days, when he had kept so close to her, so intimate, she began to look at him and to wonder.

She wondered if he was beautiful, if he was scarred, if any face could properly hold those _eyes_ so bright and so infinite. She had even tried to dream of it.

But now, like so many times before, she wanted to _know. _

And Bane knew this and perhaps in some small part of himself, a part that was still afraid, he wanted to show her. To bear himself in his weakness if that would free him from it. But what moved his hands now to the clasps of his mask was an unselfish desire. The urge to meet her in her moment of weakness, in her moment of absolute fear.

Susan watched his hands in their practiced movement and watched the clasps swing low and open around his skull. He held the mouth piece in place and she listened to him breathe even and deep through the mask. He was preparing himself for the pain. And then he glanced away, lowering his eyes from her face as he began to pull down the mask.

"Wait," she whispered, placing a hand on his arm. He drew pause, his eyes flickering back up to her face in question. The disquiet was there, plain and gray. The fear. So she pushed his hands, cool with sweat, away from the mask. She would hold it there herself. She would force him to trust her. They watched each other for a moment more. He gave a slow nod and she returned by lowering the mask from his face.

A moment was all she had and she was ready for it; but even for all the time she had spent weighing the wondered image of his face in her mind, she would not have been ready for this.

It was not awful. It was not pretty but it was not awful. He could have been beautiful once, she could see that, but he had been broken far before then. The scars were silver and a faded painful pink like the one on his back, shining in the dull light and trickling down from the strong, jagged bridge of his nose, cracking across his lips.

_His lips_. They were badly chapped and badly scarred and whitened with the pain readying in his veins but they were full. The left corner of his mouth was puckered in a slight permanent leer. The end of his nose was blunt and crooked where it had healed wrong. The mask had worn his skin red. No, nothing sensational – but she felt like weeping as she reached out to touch him.

Bane watched as she watched him, kept still as she touched him, and waited, anxious for a response. His worry had transformed itself into a sort of pride; he looked at her and challenged her response to the mystery of his face finally revealed. He did not expect the reaction he received and Susan felt him tense beneath her as she leaned forward and touched her lips to his. But it was he who deepened the kiss, as if remembering the motion, and she pressed into him, feeling his hands in her hair.

She could feel her power, the zeal of it, building in her lips and in her touch, passing between them. Creation, oblivion, reaching their zenith within her and then within him. She was healing him; she was giving him life. She was offering him eternity. He sighed, breathing it in deeply, and he shuddered against her, shivering not from pain but from ecstasy. The rapture eclipsed him and there was nothing. Nothing but her…nothing…and an overwhelming apprehension. It settled over them where they sat, entwined on the bedside, with a poignant silence. It waited. It followed them into the bed where they slept, long after Bane had replaced his mask and long after the energy stirring within Susan had thundered to a soft halt.

It was the redemption he craved and the redemption she denied.

It was the truth that would destroy them both.

It was their love.

It was doom.


	20. Chapter 20

"What was the purpose of this anyhow?"

Susan had to speak clearly over the loud crackling of the dead leaves crumbling under their boot heels.

"I thought you might enjoy the fresh air. Was I wrong?" replied Bane who was only a few strides ahead of her. He threw a curious glance over his shoulder to catch her scowling at him.

"You make it sound like I'm a terrier or something." He only stared at her, her humor going unnoticed, and paused long enough for her to catch up to him. The trek was easier for him who had not been forcibly bedridden for a week or so, but as usual, he attended to her with the patience of a saint; something that did not go unappreciated.

The park was silent and entirely deserted. In all her years in Gotham, Susan had never seen it so empty. No screaming children, no uppity joggers, no strollers, no idlers. Even the birds and the squirrels seemed to have vacated the trees and the underbrush, all of which were dead and dry with winter. It was peaceful if not a little sad.

They ambled along the cement path and Susan turned her face to the wind as the chill swept the gray brittle branches clean of a few more leaves. Their dry faces scraped along the pavement, a dead sound, an empty sound. She looked at her companion as they walked. Neither of them talked. She smiled to herself thinking how she would laugh if he tried to hold her hand.

Isn't that what lovers did?

_Ha. Lovers. _

The trail ended abruptly as they rounded another winding corner and deposited them at the base of a small hill. The fresh green of the grass had been dampened with winter and was peppered with the dull and dusty yellows and reds of dying leaves. Glancing at once another, the two silently agreed and began up the hill. Susan was the only one out of the breath by the time they reached the top, much to her chagrin. Bane was eyeing her as if he were about to fuss or offer his arm for support and she sharply waved him away. He smiled all the same.

The crest of the knoll offered the pair a generous view of the park. A gaunt picture. The trees, starved for sunlight, reached their naked arms toward the sky, their trunks wet and gray with the frost, their roots swamped with the fallen leaves. The tips of the trees seemed to blur into the overcast sky, forming a long jagged smudge of black along the horizon. Everything seemed colder from up here, Susan thought. And the winter seemed more immediate.

"My mother and I used to come here sometimes," she said suddenly, aimlessly, "Right before the leaves fell. We liked to admire the colors. She used to say they reminded her of my hair." The memory made her smile, but the expression lost its softness as the wind picked up suddenly, carrying like a cold whisper across her face. "The snow will be here soon," she grimaced.

Bane nodded slowly, slipping his hands into the pockets of his large woolen coat. Susan envied him that coat. She pulled her own industrial jacket closer to her body and stifled the shiver raking up her spine. He noticed.

"You're not fond of the cold," he commented. She fought the urge to roll her eyes.

"I'm a houseplant. I suppose I'm just not use to the environment," she murmured and then added warmly, "But you were right. I am enjoying the fresh air. Thank you."

He nodded again and glanced away, looking out over the grounds. Susan could tell he was weighing something, considering something; she could read it in his posture. He shifted quietly beside her.

"You're the first woman I've ever kissed, Susan" he announced finally. His tone was marked with a certain reflective astonishment, as if he had just recognized the fact.

"I wouldn't have known."

He laughed at that.

"And how was it?"

He was quiet for a moment, as if considering it. And then he looked at her, that fond light burning brightly in his gray eyes. "It was like remembering something I had forgotten."

Susan smiled and resisted the urge to disrupt the affectionate mood with a crass comment. His sentimentality was a rare yet maddening thing. It made her skin feel too tight. It made her chest feel as if it could splinter and cave in.

She side-kicked a few leaves in his direction without much finesse to distract from the feeling of infinity bubbling in the back of her throat. He only smiled. She stared at him, thinking of what he had confessed. The first…it seemed a foreign notion, but certainly one she considered with a small sense of pride. Then she thought of Talia; surely at one time hadn't she thought the partnership between them involved more than duty?

And it could still be true, she reasoned. Sex was sex. It was instinct, it was banal. But a kiss…there was a far more intimate energy involved. Something perhaps he had only offered to share with her.

Glancing away from him, she knelt, focusing her attention on the brown, withered sprouts of grass at her feet. She pressed her fingers into the dirt, packed hard with footsteps and frost; when her fingertips broke through the soil, she relished the faint warmth of the ground and the wet, earth smell. She fiddled with the earth, letting it run through her fingers.

"Do you think you could make something grow?" Bane murmured, tilting his head to study her where she crouched on the ground. "Even for the cold?"

"You know that I can," she replied softly, not looking at him. But she wasn't so sure. Susan was sure that her power had grown stronger, had become dominant to her person. She could _feel _it, more clearly than she ever had. The green had helped her recover, even if it had pushed her to the edge of her humanity. It was in her veins now, pulsing and very much alive. But the cold – the cold made her feel _weak_. The frigid chill of the wind made her feel just as brittle, just as gray as the trees and the dying leaves.

Her humanity had crumbled. It had had to for nature to find its way. And now whatever was left…the nature within her…would crumble too in these elements. It was a truth she had not recognized. Not until she had felt the cold earth on her palms. And it was only get colder…

"How do you feel?"

It was his customary question but it frightened her to hear it now. She was beginning to believe he could read her mind.

"Better," she lied. She looked at him and smiled so he would believe her. Then, standing up from the ground, she shook the dirt from her hands and began down the hill. He followed a few paces behind. Silence filled the small distance between them.

"Well enough to go off on your own, I think," Bane observed casually, breaking the quiet. His voice rippled across the dry faces of the nearby trees. Susan stopped abruptly and turned to stare at him.

He looked a beast, standing there amidst the trees, his mask gleaming like fangs. As if perhaps he was from nature himself, not quite a man. But a solid, fierce, gray creature. But then the vision was gone and she could see him clearly. He met her stare with an easy, open expression.

"Do you mean to say that I can - ?"

"Yes."

"Even after –"

"Yes."

"And you're - "

"Certain."

He knew. She realized it then. He must have known about what she was up to. She knew that he knew. She could have and would have left, once she felt well enough, to go and continue her supposedly "rebel" activities; she had never needed his permission, had never expected to receive it in the first place, let alone any recognition. But now – now he was sending her on her way, _reassuring_ her decision.

That meant something entirely different. A low flame of suspicion began in the pit of her stomach. But her mind was completely alight, ringing with a single thought.

_Go. Go. Go. _

"Okay," she replied automatically, blinking numbly at him. Bane replied with a low nod. It was settled. Susan felt the pathetic heat in the pit of her stomach turn over and die. The brush crunched loudly beneath his boots as he lessened the space between them. And then side by side, they began along the path once more, the winter pressing at their backs.

0000

Susan left around noon. Bane had been toying idly with a strange piece of red string in the living room, weaving it around his large fingers. He had only looked up as she passed, in some small gesture of acknowledgment. He didn't say a word. Only watched as she called and boarded the elevator.

His passivity probably should have made her more cautious. When she held still, she could feel that low flicker of unease in the very curve of her spine, bubbling up to numb the corners of her mouth. But she was moving now and the wind, howling down the city streets, pulling across her face, cleared the thought from her mind. Her stride was strong and easy and it carried her along the familiar way toward headquarters.

She had just rounded the corner for the complex, not twenty paces from her destination, when the shouting began.

"Don't move!"

Susan paused, momentarily confused, before taking another uncertain step forward and glancing wildly around for the source of the noise.

"I said don't move!" The speaker insisted, still unseen, their voice ringing out forcefully in the empty street. "Stay where you are…"

She did as she was told, obeying only out of curiosity. From where she stood, Susan had a clear view of the smudged glass doors of the complex at the front of the complex. One of the doors had been thrown wide and the speaker stood in the doorway, holding it ajar with his back. If she squinted she could make him out perfectly.

Young, perhaps a few years younger than herself. Dark hair. Anonymous blue jacket. He had a gun in his hand. His eyes and his weapon were trained on Susan. She grimaced. All these panicked fools with guns…when will it end?

"Hands where I can see them!" He called and gave himself away. He was a cop.

"Are you sure?" Susan replied brashly, raising her hands and waving them lightly so the green of her palms flashed in the bleary midday light. Her challenger didn't flinch.

"Don't try anything funny," he cried, adjusting his grip on the gun, "Or I _will_ shoot." For all his volume, she didn't think he sounded so sure.

She masked her impatience with a smile. "Look, I don't think you understand," She took a tentative step forward, hands still raised. "I'm - "

He wasn't bluffing. There was the sharp, metallic clip of the gun and a few bullets exploded with a deafening crack at and around her feet. She leapt instinctively to dodge the fire and then she froze, glaring at the cop through the smoke of the blast.

"Blake!" A far more familiar voice broken through the confusion. "Jesus, Blake! Put your fucking gun away." Selina appeared suddenly beside the man in the doorway and put her hand on his arm, breaking his aim. She glanced out into the street and immediately locked eyes with Susan. Her look of complete shock was enough to propel Susan forward, across the street, and toward the doors.

As she approached, Blake attempted once more to raise his weapon, glancing between the two women with a look of confusion and wild disbelief.

"Put your gun away, Blake" Selina reproved him again, moving past him. Susan watched him and the weapon until he did as he was told. She felt herself give a sigh of relief.

"You came back," Selina murmured when they met, her mouth turned up in a smirk of mild gladness.

Susan only shrugged. "There's still work to be done."

Selina blinked numbly and nodded, growing suddenly flustered. "You're right of course. I just – I figured the worst had happened. That you – or that _they_ – I'm" She rubbed idly at the back of her neck, "I'm glad you came back."

"Going sentimental on me?"

Selina grimaced.

"Just don't make it a habit," Susan laughed, breaking the tension. She placed a tender hand on the other woman's shoulder and turned her around, leading her back to the complex. As they approached, the young man, Blake, snapped to attention.

"Now, Blake," Selina began calmly, "This is - "

"I don't need introductions," he replied hotly, his dark eyes flickering with much agitation between the two of them, "I need to know what the hell is going on here."

"Why is it every time I come here I get either apprehended or attacked?" Susan asked blithely, ignoring Blake and tilting her head at Selina in mock perplexity.

"Because you're a terrorist," he stated strongly, advancing toward her a step. The door swung close with a quiet sound behind him. "And you deserve no less."

Susan stared at him in disbelief. His brashness amazed her, even impressed her. She wanted to say something equally brazen, to remind him just who he was addressing and with such vehemence; but she felt herself stifle a shudder as the winter wind screamed down the street and through the tops of the buildings. She felt her energy flicker like a dull flame; she felt dread.

So she straightened up, fixing her face with a haughty expression and curling her lip at the man standing between her and the door. "Excuse me," she sneered and brushed past him airily. Swinging the front door wide, making sure to hit him lightly with the lip of the door, Susan started down the hallway; she smiled when only a few moments later, she heard Selina fall into step beside her.

"Where did you _find_ him?" she whispered incredulously.

"_He_ found _us_," Selina replied, glancing over her shoulder with a shrug. Blake had caught up to them.

"Excuse me, Ms. Kyle" he called, slightly out of breath, "I don't appreciate being treated like a child and being kept in the dark here. Now, I demand an explanation –"

"Excuse _you_, Mr. _Blake_," Susan cried sharply, stopping short and whirling around suddenly to face him. But he interrupted her before she could remand him further.

"_Detective_ Blake." He seemed to grow ten feet before her eyes with the simple pride of his statement. It only impressed – and irritated – Susan further.

"Well, _Detective _Blake," she spat, stepping closer, making sure to properly disregard his space. "I'm not sure you're aware, but your jurisdiction no longer applies."

He didn't hesitate to step into her space either, leaving but a few inches of hostile air between the tips of their noses. "And you'd know all about that – wouldn't you?"

There was about a minute of tense, indignant silence although it seemed much longer to both of them. This close to him, Susan could see that even for his title, Blake looked young, fresh. A rookie cop. He sure acted the type. She studied his face and tried not to smirk. He was _pretty_.

"Alright," Selina broke the silence with a sigh, smacking her lips dryly, "Now that we have all of that – hopefully – out of our systems: can we socialize like adults?"

The pair blinked, as if coming out of a little trance, and stepped away from one another, each giving the other a once over. Susan was curious now, more than anything; the detective still looked generally disgusted. Neither of them said a word, however, as they followed Selina down the hall toward the main office.

They took their respective seats: Selina behind the lone and work office, Susan opposite her, and Blake in the metal folder chair near the window. He purposefully distanced himself from Susan. She noticed and she smiled, a gesture he received with spite and did not return.

"Since neither of you can open your mouths without baring your teeth," Selina stated diplomatically, leaning back languidly in her seat, "I will be doing all the talking." Susan gave another shrug in assent; Blake only scowled. "Firstly," she began with a fake and wholly characteristic cheerfulness, "Susan, this is Detective John Blake. Blake, this is Susan Isley. But you're probably more familiar with that awful comic book moniker the press gave her." This earned her a dark laugh from Susan. "However, the one thing you both have in common is that you're here to help. So why don't we act like it?"

Susan rolled her eyes in Blake's direction; his scowl had worsened.

"You honestly expect me to believe that the woman, that woman there," He flung out his arm to point an accusatory finger in Susan's direction, "who associates herself with the terrorist Bane, who has co-orchestrated the downfall of this city, and who has up until this point in time observed it all with utmost apathy – is here to _help_?"

The two women stared at him and his righteous finger. They nodded slowly.

His eyes crinkled at the corners as his gaze flickered to Selina. "And you don't suspect her motives? Not at all?"

Another beat of silence. Susan watched for the woman's reaction. Any doubt Selina might have had about Susan's intentions _must _surely have been resolved by now; Selina straightened slowly and shook her head. No.

Blake sat quietly with himself for a minute, glancing between the two women at equal intervals. Despite his expression of utter skepticism, he was turning the idea of her benevolence over in his mind, wholly considering it; she could see it working in his eyes. He fiddled idly with the zipper on his jacket and tapped his foot as if it might help him think. Whatever conclusion he was trying to grasp, however, eluded him now. After a few moments, he sighed.

"Okay. I…trust your judgment."

His only seemed resigned; Susan knew that. His suspicion still curled the corners of his thin lips in a grimace, still wrinkled the fine lines of his eyes with unease. He was very honest, Susan noted, even when he didn't mean to be.

The tension passed. Selina leaned farther back in her chair, visibly relieved with his answer. "Brilliant. Now, Detective, if you wouldn't mind – Susan and I need to talk."

He didn't need her to elaborate. He stood, zipped up his jacket sharply, and made to leave. As he passed, however, Susan reached up to grip his arm where the sleeves of his coat didn't quite cover. He froze, jolted by the sudden sensation of her touch, his neck and cheeks flushing a deep red and his mouth falling slightly open.

"It was nice meeting you, Detective Blake," she leered, running her fingers over his wrist; it was an overtly intimate touch, one that she noted Bane used often to intimidate.

Blake gave a shudder and jerked away, knocking loudly into a nearby filing cabinet. Huffing, he righted himself quickly and fought the worsening blush rising in the tips of his ears. "You'll understand if I can't say the same, Ms. Isley," he spat and with that, he stormed from the room. A few seconds later, there was the slam of a door down the hall.

It was quiet after he left. The feet of Selina's tipped chair cracked onto the floor; she tried not to look amused. Susan could only beam.

"I think I like him."


End file.
